IC-NRLF 


THE   CHILDREN 


AND    OTHER  VERSES 


BY 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON 


NEW    YORK 

CASSELL  &  COMPANY,  LIMITED 
104  &  106  FOURTH  AVENUE 

LONDON 
SAMPSON  LOW,   MARSTON,  SEARLE,  &  RIVINGTON 

LIMITED 

St.  Dunstan's  House 
FETTER    LANE,    FLEET    STREET    E.G. 

1889 
[All  rights  reserved'] 


COPYRIGHT    BY 

O,   M.   DUNHAM,. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

Prelude         .  1 

The  Children  3 

In   the   Garden  7 

The   Birds          .  9 

She   Sleeps  11 
Humility                                                                                                      .          12 

The    Easter    Bell  14 

Jealousy  17 

The   Wren's   Nest  19 

A    Prophecy  21 

The   Autumn    Woods  24 

A   Morning    Miracle  26 

The   Lilies  28 

How   Far    From    Heaven?  29 

The   Desert   Life  34 

In    Shadow  35 

By  the  River  37 

Nature's  Creed  4O 

In    Bereavement        .  41 

Come   Unto    Me  45 

iii 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

In  the  Library  •      49 

Memorial  Day      .  52 

Eleanore             '.  •      SS 
Night's  Silences 
The  Susquehanna 

Ulysses  S.  Grant  67 

Of  Bessie  •     72 

A    Breath        .            .  74> 

Our  Dead             .  ...      76 


Heaven 


81 


A  Winter  Picture 

Brook  and   Breeze 

At  Mother's  Grave  •     87 

The  Drummer  Boy        .  94 

After  Sunset 

Sowing  for  Others  to  Reap  .         97 

His  Eyes 

The  Army   Reunion 

Of  Pearls 

The  Church  of  Our  Fathers  1O7 

Dipped  in  Sunset        .        ,    . 

I_ove  and   Law 

The  Pines  •  •  115 


CONTENTS.  v 

Page. 

The  Grainfield          .  •       110 

Night   at  Santa    Fe                  .  118 

The  Bluebirds                       .  .        119 

Death   and   Darkness  ISO 

In  June                           .  .       122 

The  Burial  of  the  Year         .  123 

Does  She   Love   Me  ?        .  -                    ISO 

My   Burdens          .  132 

Your   Birthnight     .  .        134 

NOTE  141 


truants  from  my  heart  and  brain, 
Go  forth  into  the  world  you  see, 
Since  you  no  longer  will  remain 

Content  in  this  small  home  with  me. 

You  see  the  smile  of  early  morn  ; 

I  fear  for  you  the  chilling  eves  ; 
You  see  the  rose  ;  I  feel  the  thorn, 

That  waits  you  in  the  rose^s  leaves. 


By  homes  of  rich,  by  homes  of  poor, 
Your  tender  feet  must  now  incline, 

God  grant  you  find  the  open  door 
Of  other  loving  hearts  than  mine. 

And  if  they  bid  you  enter  there, 
I  pray  you,  sing,  in  tender  key, 

A  nobler  song,  a  sweeter  air, 

Than  any  you  have  sung  for  me  ;  — 


A  song  of  faith,  a  $ong  of  love, 

*.«  Thafrllkk  $  s,etd-  of  heavenly  birth, 


dtet  \iown:fr'o'm.  the  skies  above, 
Take  roof  ah'd  blo's'som  on  the  earth. 


But  if  they  frown,  and  will  not  pause 
And  listen  to  your  low  refrain; 

I  shall  not  mourn  so  much,  because, 
That  frown  will  send  you  home  again. 


THE  CHILDREN.  1 


VKTHEN  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good  night  and  be  kissed  ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace  ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face! 

And  when  they  are  gone,  I  sit  dreaming 
Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last, — 

Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember, 
While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 

Ere  the  world  and  its  v/ickedness  made  me 
A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin, 


THE  CHILDREN. 

When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 
And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 

And  the  fountain  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go, — 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  fate  blowing  wild ; — 
Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise  ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  shines  in  their  eyes ; 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven, — 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild ; 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 
All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 


THE  CHILDREN. 

But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun ; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself; 
Ah !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God : 
My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule  ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 
Ah,  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door! 
I  shall  miss  the  "good  nights"  and  the  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 


THE  CHILDREN. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says :  "  The  school  is  dismissed ! " 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good  night  and  be  kissed  ! 


IN  THE  GARDEN. 


1 I rHEN  the  night  comes  down 

Over  field  and  town, 

And  hides  all  the  flowers  and  meadow  daisies, 
I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  blossoming  skies, 
To  the  far-off  gardens  of  Paradise, 
The  mistletoe  boughs  in  the  starry  mazes, 
The  daisy  borders,  white  and  dense, 
And  the  nebulous  meadows  of  innocence ; 
To  the  radiant  spots 
Of  forget-me-nots, 

The  jasmine  Harp;  and  twinkling  down, 
The  anemones  in  the  Northern  Crown ; 
To  the  tiger-lily  that  nods  and  glows 

In  the  crescent  bed  of  the  larger  Lion, 
The  stars  of  Bethlehem  and  Sharon's  rose, 
And  the  great,  white  river  that  heavenward  goes, 


8  IN  THE  GARDEN'. 

And  waters  each  plant  and  flower,  then  flows 
Right  on  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Zion ; 

And  my  heart  is  so  filled  with  the  wondrous  view, 
That  it  overflows  in  reverent  praises, 

And  mourns  no  more  for  the  violets  blue, 
For  the  roses  sweet,  and  the  meadow  daisies. 


THE  BIRDS. 


r  I AWO  wood-peckers  live  in  a  hole  in  a  tree  ; 

Two  robins  are  happy  in  one  little  nest, 
Because  they  are  nearer  to  heaven  than  we ; 
Though  there  is  no  room  for  a  single  guest, 
Yet,  they  have  no  trouble 
In  making  up  double, 
A  soft,  warm  bed  where  the  little  birds  be, 
On  the  quilted  grass  of  the  wool-lined  nest, 
And  under  the  down  of  the  mother-bird's  breast. 

They  lie  not  awake  with  an  anxious  care ; 

They  have  no  thought  for  their  future  food ; 
With  songs  that  are  happy  with  praise  and  prayer, 
They  wake  sweet  sounds  in  the  echoing  wood; 
With  no  sin  to  be  forgiven, 
They  go  in  and  out  of  heaven, 


10  THE  BIRDS. 

Just  as  they  did  when  Adam  was  good, 
And  have  learned  there  that  God  sees  the  sparrow's  fall, 
And  will  feed  and  shelter  and  guide  them  all. 

Apostles  of  song !     Does  the  Lord  still  preach 

His  sermons  through  sparrow  and  thrush  and  wren? 

Are  you  his  evangels  to  tunefully  teach 
His  lessons  of  meekness  and  love  again  ? 
As  the  skies  were  once  riven, 
And  let  a  dove  out  of  heaven, 
With  a  marvelous  message  from  God  to  men, 

So  you,  sweet  saints,  with  an  angel's  wing, — 
Lined  with  cloudy  pearl,  or  tipped  with  blue, 
Or  the  red  light  of  morning  as  you  float  through, — 

Come  down  out  of  heaven  in  the  early  Spring, 

With  faith  in  God  in  the  hearts  you  bring, 

And  the  love  of  Christ  in  the  songs  you  sing. 


SHE  SLEEPS. 


XT  OW  soft  she  breathes  !     How  still  she  lies  ! 

When  gentle  slumbers  close  her  eyes. 
Her  warm  heart  sets  in  either  cheek, 

A  sign  that  more  than  words  can  speak, 

A  sign  that  though  she  is  so  still, 
And  supple  is  her  strong,  sweet  will, 
Her  gentle  pulses  are  not  chill. 
Alas,  dear  girl,  what  tears  would  flow, 
What  heart  with  muffled  tread  would  go 

t3 

On  to  the  grave,  with  weight  of  woe, 

If  no  sweet  sign  of  life  were  set 
In  your  young  cheek,  like  a  rose  in  blow, 

Or  if,  like  rose  or  mignonette, 
Your  breath  no  more  should  come  and  go. 


1 1 


HUMILITY. 


r  I AHE  sweetest  things  have  humblest  birth; 

The  lark  in  lowlands  builds  her  nest ; 
The  arbutus  clings  close  to  earth ; 

The  river  folds  deep  in  its  breast, 

The  sunset  glories  of  the  West, 
And  all  the  stars  in  heaven's  blue  zone 
That  circle  'round  the  Eternal  Throne. 

The  lowliest  vales  of  earth  are  blest 
With  grass  and  fern  and  shrub  that  shun 
The  mountain  ranges  near  the  sun. 


No  oriel-window  in  the  East,  no  gorgeous  sunsets  glow, 
No  rainbow  bridges  earth  and  heaven,  save  when  the  sun 
is  low. 


12 


HUMILITY.  13 

The  modest,  little  flowers  that  grow  lowest  in  the  grass, 
Make  no  shadow  on  the  earth  when  the  summer  sun  doth 
pass. 


The  rose  lifts  up  its  bud  and  flower  upon  its  slender  shoot, 
But  the  sweetness  of  the  roses  comes  from  the  rose's  root. 


And  all  the  incense  in  the  air  springs  from  the  speechless 

sod, 
Which  has  no  other  offering  or  way  to  worship  God. 


THE  EASTER  BELL. 


'T^HE  great,  blue  dome  that  over  us  swells, 
By  heavenly  breezes  gently  swung, 

Is  God's  own  beautiful  Easter  bell, 

And  the  mighty  earth  is  its  tuneful  tongue, 
By  angel  hands  on  Easter  rung. 

Across  the  faint  horizon's  rim, — 
Out  where  the  stars  in  the  ether  swim, 
From  West  to  East,  it  whirls  and  swings, 

Up  and  down  through  the  fields  of  air, 
Till  all  the  heaven  with  music  rings, 

And  it's  Easter  morning  everywhere. 

Old  "Coronation"  comes  floating  down, 
Like  the  breath  of  a  rose  in  a  thorny  crown, 


THE  EASTER  BELL. 


And  unseen  voices  soft  repeat 

The  majestic  music  of  "Silver  Street," 

While  an  angel  chorus  chants  again: 

"  Peace,  Peace  on  Earth !  Good  will  to  men ! 


Open  your  soul,  and  you  shall  feel 

The  rush  and  thrill  of  the  joyous  peal; 

Open  your  ears,  and  you  shall  hear 

Its  marvelous  music,  sweet  and  clear, — 

The  grandest  chimes  that  ever  were  rung, — 

The  sweetest  notes  that  ever  were  sung, 

The  song  of  the  morning  stars, — the  tongue 

Of  mountain  torrents,  blending  fine 

With  the  windy  hymn  of  the  northern  pine, — 

The  rippling  laughter  and  pattering  feet 

Of  streams  that  dance  down  their  stony  street, 

A  diapason  of  thunder  grand, — 

The  Easter  chimes  from  the  Holy  Land 

To  Alaska's  coast, — the  minor  tone 

Of  winds  through  tropical  forests  blown, — 

The  organ-peal  of  the  ocean's  swell, 
And  in  the  treble,  the  happiest  note 
That  ever  slipped  from  a  robin's  throat, — 


1 6  THE  PIASTER  BELL. 

All  welded  together,  with  wondrous  spell, 
In  one,  grand  tone  of  the  Easter  bell. 


Swing  on,  ring  on,  O,  beauteous  Bell! — 

'Broidered  with  clouds  with  their  silver  hems, 
Inlaid  with  pearl  and  lined  with  light, 
Or  the  deep,  dark  blue  of  a  cloudless  night, 

And  crowned  with  a  myriad  starry  gems : — 
Swing  on,  ring  on,  till  thy  music  tells 
To  every  heart  and  to  every  home, 
That  is  sheltered  beneath  thine  azure  dome, 
The  promise  of  love  and  life  made  known 
To  a  sinful  world,  in  thy  joyous  tone. 
Swing  on,  ring  on,  till  every  ear 
Thy  message  of  mercy  and  hope  shall  hear ; 
Till  the  crucified  Christ  to  life  shall  start 
From  the  rocky  tomb  of  each  contrite  heart, 
And  all  the  voices  of  Earth  shall  swell 
The  grand,  sweet  chimes  of  the  Easter  Bell. 


JEALOUSY. 


LOVE  you,  Dear,  but  I  tremble  and  start, 
When  I  think  there  is  only  a  single  place 

In  all  this  world,  and  that  my  heart, 
Where  heaven  and  hell  embrace. 


When  I  talk  with  you,  when  I  walk  with  you, 
The  world  is  so  lovely,  so  free  from  care, 

If  the  fairest  dream  of  heaven  came  true, 
No  heaven  could  be  so  fair. 


Things  skip  and  fly  that  once  did  creep ; 

The  humblest  bird,  like  an  angel,  sings ; 
What  wonder  that  all  my  soul  should  leap, 

And  struggle  to  use  its  wings! 


1 8  JEALOUSY. 

For,  the  commonest  weeds  have  a  scented  breath 
And  all  the  colors  of  earth  and  sky ; 

And  there's  nothing  in  all  the  world,  but  Death, 
That  is  sad  enough  to  die. 

But,  if  one  glance  of  your  love-lit  eyes 
Go  out  to  another,  the  fiend  of  Hate 

Springs  up  in  my  heart,  and  earth  and  skies 
Are  blackened  and  desolate. 

And  beauty  is  crushed,  and  the  jealous  knife 
Of  hate  strikes  deep  in  the  heart  of  love ; — 

A  hate  that  would  pull  down  the  temple  of  life, 
And  die  in  the  ruins  thereof. 

And  yet,  the  demon  that  rageth  thus, 

Red-handed  as  hell  and  as  black  as  night, 

Has  a  look  like  the  angel  that  walked  with  us, 
When  the  world  was  so  happy  and  bright. 

Ah,  I  love  you,  Dear,  but  I  tremble  and  start, 
When  I  think  there  is  only  a  single  place 

In  all  this  world,  and  that  my  heart, 
Where  heaven  and  hell  embrace. 


THE  WREN'S  NEST. 


/^\UT  on  the  porch  in  the  ivy  vine, 

Where  Guy  in  his  hammock  sits  and  swings, 
A  little  brown  wren  has  built  her  nest, 
And  four  blue  esj^s  lie  under  her  breast. 


She  came  unsought;  she  had  no  thought, 

But  God  thought  for  her,  and  so  she  flew 
Through  field  and  forest,  to  fold  her  wings 
Where  our  little  darling  sits  and  swings. 


Our  hearts  are  filled  with  a  sense  of  awe, 

When  we  think  that  God  has  been  so  near; 
For.,  nothing  less  than  a  power  divine 
Chose  that  nesting-place  in  the  ivy  vine. 

I9 


20  THE   WREN'S  NEST* 

We  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  th'  approving  sign,— - 

Thy  gracious  faith  in  our  tender  care, 
Set  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  little  wren ; 
For  this,  we  thank  thee,  again  and  again, 
And  for  all  thy  goodness  to  us.     Amen. 


A  PROPHECY. 


T 


'HE  dead  leaves  cling 

To  the  boughs  till  Spring, 
But  the  beautiful  buds  are  swelling  under ; 
And  a  thousand  things, 
With  legs  and  wings, 
Now  wait  for  Spring  in  the  woods  out  yonder. 

The  arbutus  weaves 
.    Its  crown  of  leaves, 

But  beneath,  the  timid  flowers  are  springing ; 
The  sun  is  unbinding  his  golden  sheaves ; 
Through  the  lonely  woods  no  birds  are  winging 
But  there's  red  in  the  west 
For  the  robin's  breast, 
And  blue  for  the  eggs  in  the  robin's  nest, 
And  a  silence  that  waits  for  the  robin's  singing. 


21 


22  A  PROPHECY. 

I  cannot  see 

A  bud  on  a  tree, 
Just  ready  to  burst  with  the  joy  of  being, 

Nor  a  happy  stream 

Through  the  meadows  gleam, 

Nor  a  rose  uncover 

And  blush  all  over, 
At  the  envious  eyes  her  beauty  seeing ; 

But  I  feel  the  whir 

Of  wings,  and  the  stir 
Of  invisible  things,— of  the  south  wind  blowing,— 

Of  the  frost  and  cold 

Coming  out  of  the  mold, — 
Of  the  sap  through  the  veins  of  the  maples  flowing, 

The  earth's  heart  beat 

Out  the  life  and  heat 

Stored  up  in  her  breast  last  year,  and  going 
Into  shrubs  and  flowers,  to  set  them  a-growing. 

We  shall  welcome  soon 
The  days  of  June 

That  make  the  brown  earth  sweet  and  vernal, 
And  are  gathered,  at  last, 
From  the  lovely  past, 


A   PROPHECY.  23 

To  form  a  part  of  the  life  eternal. 

The  flowers  will  bloom 

From  the  old  year's  tomb, 
The  glad  brooks  sing  through  fields  and  fountains. 

And  the  caravans  of  cloud  resume 
Their  summer  journey  across  the  mountains, 

Bearing  wealth  untold, 

All  the  sunset's  gold, 
To  the  heavenly  city  beyond  the  mountains. 


THE  AUTUMN  WOODS. 


T  T  THEN  the  frost  goes  mowing  among  the  grasses, 

And  the  wind  is  reaping  the  fallen  leaves, 
The  sun  drives  out  of  the  grim,  old  forest, 

The  shadows  that  lengthen  the  autumn  eves ; 
It  winds  its  arms  round  the  oaks  and  maples ; 

Coaxes  out  the  buds  of  the  coming  May ; — 
Like  a  child  come  back  to  its  father's  dwelling 

It  dances  along  each  woodland  way. 


On  the  gray,  old  carpet,  with  skillful  finger, 
Some  warm,  gold  patterns  it  lays  and  weaves ; 

The  little  brown  birds  still  chirp  and  linger, 
And  break  the  chrysalis  of  next  year's  leaves. 

24 


THE  AUTUMN   WOODS. 

Pick  off  the  buds,  O,  brown-winged  singers ! 

We  can  spare  some  leaves  from  our  summer's  'store, 
But  Summer  would  never  again  be  Summer, 

If  the  little  brown  birds  should  come  no  more. 


A  MORNING  MIRACLE. 


As  Christ  stands  close  to  both  God  and  Sin, 
So  earth  meets  heaven  where  the  skies  begin  ; 
But  the  air  is  so  pure,  though  faint  and  thin, 
It  keeps  the  earthly  out  and  the  heavenly  in. 

r  I  ^HE  river  lifts  its  morning  mist, 

An  incense-offering  to  the  Sun ; 
Through  countless  threads  of  amethyst 

And  gold  and  silver,  finely  spun, 
It  trembles  upward  through  the  skies, 
As  slowly  as  a  soul  might  rise, 
Until  it  felt  the  magnet-power  of  Paradise. 

'Tis  of  the  earth,  but  out  of  it 

Has  been  distilled  each  earthly  trace ; 

26 


A  MORNING  MIRACLE.  27 

The  watchful  skies  alone  transmit 

The  pure  through  their  transparent  space : 
The  earthy  back  to  the  eartli  is  given, 
No  longer  a  part  of  the  river  even, 
The  heavenly  alone  ascendeth  into  heaven. 


THE  LILIES. 


HP  HE  lilies  do  not  toil,  and  the  lilies  do  not  spin; 

They  have  to  hold  their  chalices  to  catch  the  rain 
drops  in, 

To  wash  their  raiment  white  as  snow,  from  golden  heart 
to  hem, 

To  justify  the  words  of  praise  the  Master  spake  of  them. 


28 


HOW  FAR  FROM  HEAVEN. 


IPjEAR  Love  of  mine,  through  whom  I  know 

The  risen  Christ  still  lives  below, 
Repeats  his  miracles  of  old, 
Turns  all  the  sunset  into  gold, 
And,  with  its  touch  of  light  divine, 
Turns  all  the  river  into  wine, 
Breathes  heaven's  harmonics  through  the  notes 
The  birds  drop  from  their  velvet  throats, 
Sets  all  the  world  a-dreaming  of 
Her  ancient  Paradise  of  love. 
And  brings  the  skies  so  near  to  view, — 
How  many  miles  from  heaven  are  you  ? 

I  know  you're  near  its  bound'ry  lines ; 
For,  as  we  stood  beneath  the  pines, 
Your  soul  went  upward  in  a  prayer ; 

29 


3o  HO  IV  FAR  FROM  11 EA  VEN. 

You  raised  to  heaven  your  pleading  eyes, 
And  lo,  the  gates  of  Paradise 

Stood  open  wide  a  moment  there. 
1  caught  a  glimpse  of  wondrous  things — 
A  gleam  of  glory,  flash  of  wings, — 

A  sense  of  music  filled  the  air ; 
And  straightway,  from  the  opening  skies, 

A  dazzling  beam  cleft  like  a  blade, 

Right  through  the  midday  light,  and  made 
A  darkened  space  to  left  and  right, 

A  shadow  in  the  sunniest  place, 
And,  like  an  angel's  smile  of  light, 

Fell  full  upon  your  upturned  face. 


Come  closer,  Love,  and  tell  me  true, 
How  many  miles  from  heaven  are  you  ? 
I  know  your  sainted  feet  have  pressed 
The  flowery  highways  of  the  Blessed, 
And  every  foot  of  sky  and  sod 
To  the  dear  city  of  our  God. 
I  know  you  hear  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  the  fair  palace  of  their  King; 
And,  by  the  holy  thoughts  that  rise, 


HOW  FAR  FROM  HE  A  VEi\T. 

Like  timid  angels,  in  your  eyes, — 
Your  pause  to  change  with  trembling  tone, 
Your  native  language  to  our  own, — 
By  all  the  sweet,  mysterious  things 
That  make  me  look  to  see  your  wings, 
I  know  a  lovelier  land  than  Earth 
Contains  the  record  of  your  birth, 

That  you're  a  heavenly  envoy  here — 
An  angel  clothed  in  fair  disguise : 
You  walk  the  world  with  weary  feet, 

That;  you  may  make  yourself  more  dear 
Than  all  the  treasures  'neath  the  skies ; 
Then,  liVe  the  North  star's  magnet-sway — 
Loaned  from  its  place,  to  wear  by  day, — 

You  lead  the  soul  from  sin  and  care, 
O'er  hills  where  night  and  morning  meet, 

Straight  up  to  heaven,  unaware. 


And  as  I  follow,  I  behold 
Glad  glimpses  of  the  gates  of  gold ; 
And  all  my  homesick  soul  forlorn, 
Longs  for  the  land  where  it  was  born. 
No  more  Earth's  magnet-heart  afar, 


3 2  HOW  FAR  FROM  HEA  VEN, 

Draws  to  itself  each  living  thing ; 
The  silver  thread  of  every  star 

Becomes  a  heavenly  leading-string. 
Far  through  the  sky's  celestial  calm, 
I  see  the  paradise  of  palm, 

Through  which  the  sunsets  burn  and  blush, 
And  winds  repeat  their  heavenly  psalm, — 

God's  voice  within  the  Burning  Bush ; — 
And  just  beyond,  the  golden  wall 

Where  those  we  thought  were  in  the  grave, 

Send  happy  looks  to  us,  and  wave 
Their  signs  of  welcome,  over  all. 


Some  sunshine  from  Eternal  day, 
Falls  here  and  there,  about  our  way ; 
Some  flowers  in  exile  bloom  to  tell 
The  glorious  gardens  whence  they  fell ; 
And  warm  air-currents  flow  by  me — 
The  Gulf  Stream  of  the  ethereal  sea  — 
And  sometimes  fan  my  heavenward  face 
With  a  strange  touch  of  added  grace, 

Like  angel's  breath  or  sweep  of  wing ; 
And  we're  so  near  our  resting  place, 


HOW  FAR  FROM  HE  A  VEN.  33 


The  very  birds  come  out  to  sing, 
To  cheer  us  with  their  song  and  sight, 
And  then  fly  back  again,  at  night. 


I  see  th'  attending  stars  stoop  down 
And  follow  nightly  with  your  crown ; 
I  see  the  pearly  cloud  that  brings 
And  hovers  with  your  waiting  wings ; 
And  sometimes,  in  the  waning  light, 
I  tremble  lest  you  fade  from  sight. 


O  precious  Guide  !  I  pray  you,  wait, 
If  first  you  reach  the  heavenly  gate ; 
For  well  I  know,  if  I  pass  through, 
'Twill  be  that  I'm  a  part  of  you, 

And  not  for  aught  that  I  have  done ; 
For  all  my  earthly  self,  the  true, 
The  purest  thoughts  I  ever  knew, 
My  noblest  aims  since  life  began, 
My  hope,  my  faith  in  Christ  and  man, 
And  all  the  love  my  life  has  known, 
Are  all  your  own — are  all  your  own. 


THE  DESERT  LIFE. 


OD  pity  the  heart  untouched  by  tears ; 
God  pity  the  eyes  that  never  are  wet 

By  the  sight  of  another's  woes  or  fears, 
By  the  scent  of  a  rose  or  mignonette, — 
Tender  and  faint  as  the  song  that  smote 
The  gate  of  heaven,  from  a  thrush's  throat, 
Yet,  strong  enough  to  bear  and  float 

A  heavy  soul  o'er  the  vanished  years, 
To  some  dear  memory ;  above  it  set 
The  immortelles  of  a  vain  regret, — 
To  some  small  grave  by  which  we  know 
The  sad,  sweet  peace  of  death  and  woe. 
God  pity  the  life  that  is  withered  and  dry, 
From  a  frozen  heart  and  a  desert  eye. 


34 


IN  SHADOW. 


T  F  the  skies  were  all  warm, 

How  could  clouds  and  the  storm 
Weave  a  soft,  white  mantle  to  cover  and  shield 
The  flowers  and  the  field,  from  frost  and  danger  ? 
If  there  were  no  night, 
How  could  a  star's  light 
Have  guided  the  wise  men  to  the  Manger? 


Then,  why  should  we  grieve 

In  the  darkened  eve? 
The  cloud  is  white  when  the  storm  has  refined  it ; 

The  sun  is  most  near 

When  the  earth  is  drear ; 
The  shadow  is  made  by  the  light  behind  it. 

35 


36  IN  SHADOW. 

Through  a  cloud,  by  day, 

The  Lord  led  the  way 
Of  slaves  to  the  highest  of  earthly  nations. 

And  the  earth  in  her  flight 

Through  the  darkest  night. 
Keeps  the  sun  in  sight,  or  the  constellations. 

From  the  awful  shroud 

Of  the  mountain  cloud. 
The  Father  above,  his  Son  commended ; 

And  the  world's  great  Light 

Was  received  from  sight 
In  a  cloud,  when  he  to  Heaven  ascended; 

And  he  cometh  again,  so  the  angels  say, 
In  the  self-same  way,  when  the  world  is  ended. 


BY  THE  RIVER. 


'"THE  sun  had  lit,  and  left  at  his  declining 

The  stars,  as  pledges  of  his  morning  rise. 
And  all  the  river  like  a  memory  shining, 
Of  its  far,  native  skies. 


Thus  glory-laden,  its  soft  watchword  saying 

To  all  the  piers,  it  crossed  their  shadowed  bars : 

And  overhead,  the  Milk}-  Way  was  straying — 
A  river  deep  with  stars. 


How  like  a  holy  thing,  while  there  we  pondered, 
Young  Venus  glowed  upon  the  brow  of  even  ! 

And  earth,  we  knew,  had  lost  her  way,  and  wandered 
More  than  half  way  to  heaven. 

37 


3 8  BY  THE  RIVER. 

We  knew  it  by  the  anchored  moon  entangled 
In  tree-tops  on  the  neighboring  mountain's  hem, 

By  stars  so  near  that  all  the  grass,  dew-spangled, 
Made  images  of  them ; — 


By  the  deep  hush,  as  if  the  whole  earth  listened 
To  catch  the  vespers  of  the  choirs  above ; 

And  that  near  sense  of  heaven,  when  souls  are  christened 
With  first,  fond  thoughts  of  love. 


Ay,  thoughts  of  love !  and  yet  we  talked  of  letters ; 

'T is  thus  we  mask  each  feeling  and  desire, 
And  link  our  language  into  icy  fetters, 

To  smother  hearts  of  fire. 


Since  then,  the  river's  soul  has  gone  to  heaven, 
And  oft  relumed  in  the  embodied  rain, 

But  souls  we  love  have  left  us  at  life's  even, 
And  come  not  back  again. 


BY  THE  RIVER.  39 

Again  we  walk  by  the  impatient  river, 

Returning  to  the  heaven  it  murmers  of; 
And  now,  no  more  we  speak  of  books ;  but  ever 

We  think  and  talk  of  Love. 


NATURE'S  CREED. 


'  T  AM  immortal ! "     This  is  Nature's  creed ; 

She  waves  and  heralds  it  where'er  we  go. 
God  shuts  himself  in  every  root  and  seed, 

And  works  a  miracle  to  make  them  grow. 
But  for  his  mighty  touch,  no  flower  or  weed 

Could  distil  perfume  from  a  clod,  or  know 

How  to  mix  rainbow  colors,  ere  it  blow ; 
But  for  the  soul's  instinctive  sense  of  need, 

It  would  not  reach  its  hands  toward  heaven  so, 
Or  blindly  follow  impulses  that  lead 

It  from  this  sure  and  happy  world  below, 

Into  a  future  that  it  cannot  know, 

And  yet,  a  future  where  it  longs  to  go. 


40 


IN  BEREAVEMENT. 


T  N  this  little  room  I  muse  alone. 

Where  the  sweetest  soul  yet  sent  from  heaven, 
Twined  its  little  being  round  my  own, 
Then  flew  back  unto  its  native  zone, 

Leaving  all  my  breaking  heart  bereaven 
Of  the  rare,  strange  sweetness  it  had  known. 


Once,  I  wondered  how  these  narrow  walls 
Could  so  much  of  heaven  hold  within  them : 

Now,  I  know  Night  nowhere  more  appalls, 

For  all  darkness  in  a  focus  falls 

Here,  with  sorrowing  sighs  and  shapes  akin  them, 

While  cruel  echoes  mock  my  tenderest  calls. 


42  IN  BEREA  VEMENT. 

Turn  the  Past's  bright  pictures  from  my  eyes, 
Shut  the  light  out  and  all  sound  of  gladness ; 

What  is  light,  while  he  in  darkness  lies, 

But  the  cloak  of  Death  in  bright  disguise, 

To  bring  out  its  hideous  shape  ?  and  mirth  is  madness. 

Shut  the  light  and  heaven  from  my  eyes. 


Oh,  the  weight  of  this  dead  silence  here ! 

Oh,  the  anguish  in  these  vacant  spaces ! 
Since  I  cannot  bring  his  presence  near, 
Cannot  feel  the  warm  weight  of  his  dear 

Cheek  on  mine,  sweet  breath,  or  soft  embraces ; — 
Oh,  the  weight  of  this  dead  silence  here ! 


Even  earth  that  holds  him  mocks  my  woe, 
Setting  bright  and  happy  flowers  above  him  ; 

While  the  grave  within  my  heart  will  grow 

Nothing  save  the  cypress,  through  which  flow 
Winds  of  memory  ever  mourning  of  him,— - 

While  the  earth  that  holds  him  mocks  my  woe. 


IN  BEREA  VEMENT.  43 

Oh,  my  Darling,  shall  I  hear  no  more 

Your  sweet,  stumbling  speech  or  rippling  laughter? — 
Hear  your  joyous  welcome  at  the  door, 
Or  your  pattering  footfalls  on  the  floor, 

Evening  prayer,  "Good  night,"  with  kisses  after? — 
Oh,  the  moist,  warm  lips  now  cold  for  evermore ! 


Shall  I  never,  never  see  your  face, 

With  its  glory  this  dull  pane  illumine  ? — 

Making  all  the  street  a  sunny  place, — 

Eyes,  two  heavens  of  blue,  sometimes  a  space, 

Moist  but  never  clouded,  smiles  so  sweetly  human, 

Yet  still  keeping  every  angel  trace ; — 


Hair  that  like  a  golden  halo  shone, 

Not  one  bright  tint  lost  or  faded  even ; 

With  a  strange,  faint  fragrance  all  its  own, 

Or  from  roses  in  your  cheeks,  half-blown, 
Look,  too  far  for  earth,  yet  near  for  Heaven, 

Voice,  too  tender  for  an  earthly  tone. 


44  IN  BEREA  VEMENT. 

Strange  I  did  not  note  the  heavenly  trace 
Of  parentage  in  your  rare  behavior, 

That  I  did  not  think  the  angel  race 

Only  comes  to  earth  for  works  of  grace, 
Then  goes  back  again ;  even  our  Saviour 

Soon  ascended  to  his  heavenly  place. 


What,  dear  Angel,  was  your  mission  here  ? 

To  make  me  with  chast'ning  grief  acquainted  ? 
Thus  distil  sweet  anguish  from  a  tear? — 
To  make  plain  how  souls  divinely  dear. 

Without  faith  or  works,  are  shriven  and  sainted, 
Then  pass  onward  to  some  higher  sphere  ? 


Tell,  oh  tell  me,  Darling,  where  you  are ! 

Just  one  word  would  ease  this  endless  aching ! 
I  would  follow  you  from  star  to  star ; 
I  would  find  you  wheresoe'er  you  are  ; 

Cast  my  body  off  with  heart  so  nigh  to  breaking, 
And  would  follow  you  from  star  to  star ! 


IN  BEREAVEMENT. 


Chide  me  not  for  mourning — it  is  best : 
Art  thou  wiser  than  our  common  mother  ? 

Let  the  hungry  instinct  in  my  breast 

Long  and  mourn,  till  tossed  by  its  unrest, 
I  may  reach  by  shipwreck,  if  no  other, 

The  very  country  where  his  soul  is  blest. 


"COME  UNTO  ME." 

T  N  the  night-watches  when  no  leaf  is  shaken, 

And  earth  lies  still,  as  if  the  stars  on  high 

Had  so  entranced  her ;  then  my  senses  waken, 

Roused  by  the  silence  or  some  spirit's  sigh ; 
And,  like  a  voice  through  happy  visions  stealing, 

Both  heard  and  felt,  and  therefore,  sweeter  far 
Than  any  sense  of  hearing  or  of  feeling, 

Fall  straight  from  heaven  as  light  of  any  star, 
These  wondrous  words  to  all  my  soul  appealing ; — 

"  Come  unto  Me,  O  weary  man  and  maiden  ; 

Come ;  lean  upon  My  breast, 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest." 

46 


"  COME   UNTO  ME."  47 

In  the  bright  day  when  clanging  wheel  and  hammer 

And  throbbing  engines  shake  the  affrighted  air, 
And  trade  and  greed  set  up  their  selfish  clamor, 

And  loud  complaint  falls  from  the  lips  of  care  ; 
Then  straight  into  my  inmost  soul  retreating, 

Where  cloistered  Memory  shuts  out  sound  and  sight, 
And,  like  a  nun  her  sacred  beads  repeating, 

Tells  o'er  those  words  heard  in  the  still  midnight, 
In  tone  of  calm  command,  yet  so  entreating ; — 

"  Come  unto  Me,   O  weary  man  and  maiden, 

Coins ;  lean  upon  My  breast. 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 

And  I  will  give  yon  rest." 


O  Voice  majestic!  yet  so  low  and  tender, 
That  the  soft  footfall  of  a  worldly  thought 

May  drown  its  pleading,  help  me  to  surrender 

Each  clamorous  earthly  want  my  heart  hath  sought, 
All  gain  or  comfort  that  my  life  hath  wrought ; 

And,  if  all  sense,  all  rest  and  pleasure  fail  me, 
Keep  my  soul  watchful  of  each  sound  and  light, 


48  "  COME   UNTO  ME." 

That  when  the  night  comes  on,  and  storms  assail  me, 
And  I  must  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

I  still  may  follow  through  the  clouds  that  veil  me, 
Those  far,  soft  accents,  calling  through  the  night ; — 


"  Come  unto  Me,  O  weary  man  and  maiden  ; 

Come ;  lean  upon  My  breast, 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 

And  I  will  give  you  rest.'1'1 


IN  THE  LIBRARY. 


ENTLE  Jailer,  turn  the  key 

'Twixt  the  outer  world  and  me, 
Shutting  out  its  care  and  din, 
Shutting  all  sweet  fancies  in  ; 
With  such  a  prison  and  such  a  guard, 
Who  would  not  be  Bonnivard  ? 


Well  I  know  the  winter's  snow 
Folds  the  buried  world  about ; 

But  a  sweet  smile  as  we  part, 

Falls  upon  my  budding  heart, 
Lets  the  sunshine  in  and  out, 

With  a  few,  warm  tears  unwept, 

49 


50  IN  THE  LIBRARY 

That  some  tender  sorrow  kept ; 

And  anon  the  fond  thoughts  stir 

Where  some  happy  memories  were 
Buried  out  of  sound  and  sight, 
Feeling  blindly  for  the  light ; 
Through  each  tender  root  they  move 
With  the  warmth  of  early  love, 
Filling  all  this  little  room 
With  a  sense  of  coming  bloom, 

Tint  of  rose  and  scent  of  myrrh ; 
And,  as  if  the  earth  had  swung 

Sudden  down  the  tropic  zone, 
I  can  see  the  pink  clouds  hung 

On  the  peach  trees,  newly  blown ; 
I  can  hear  the  birds  and  bees 
In  Floridian  orange  trees, 
Where  the  faint,  o'erburdened  breeze, 
With  the  whole  earth's  sweetness,  goes, 
Southern  jasmine,  Northern  rose, — 
Where  the  lazy  stream  scarce  flows, 
And  the  senses  swim  and  swoon, 

In  the  soft  and  slumb'rous  light, 

In  the  perfume-breathing  night, 


IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

As  March  stealeth  into  June ; — 
All  from  that  sweet  smile  that  shone 
When  you  left  me  here  alone. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 

* 

T  T  OW  earth  and  heaven  conspire  to  keep 

And  bless  the  martyred  men  who  sleep 

In  the  dear  land  they  died  to  save ! 
How  all  the  forces  of  the  air, 
Of  soil  and  sunshine  gather  there, 

To  guard  and  deck  each  hallowed  grave ! 


To  them,  some  gentle  angel  brings, — 
Perhaps  an  angel  without  wings, — 

A  seed,  and  drops  it  in  the  sod ; 
And  lo,  a  flower,  with  sweeter  breath 
Than  anything  this  side  of  Death, 

Blossoms  and  smiles  right  up  to  God. 

52 


MEMORIAL  DA  Y.  53 

Earth  robes  in  green  their  burial  beds, 
The  sky  doth  break  above  their  heads 

Its  alabaster  box  of  blue — 
Anoints  them  with  the  liquid  gold 
The  purest  light  of  heaven  can  hold, 

.\nd  bathes  their  feet  with  precious  dew. 


How  peaceful  all  the  valley  lies  ! 
Made  peaceful  by  their  sacrifice ; 

The  sounds  of  Peace  are  in  the  air ; 
And  Freedom's  angel  will  not  fail 
To  linger  in  our  happy  vale, 

While  her  brave  heroes  slumber  there. 


Blow,  bugle,  soft,  for  lips  that  blew 
Full  many  a  stirring  tone  from  you, — 

Pale  lips  no  more  by  loved  ones  pressed. 
Throb  gently,  drum,  for  hands  that  beat 
Full  many  a  march  for  willing  feet, — 

Cold  hands  now  folded  o'er  his  breast. 


54  ME  MORTAL  DA  Y. 

Heroic  men,  through  you  we  see 
How  nobler  death  than  life  can  be, 

How  Godlike,  manhood  may  become  ! — 
Types  of  the  growth  of  Christian  grace, 
For,  as  Christ  died  for  all  our  race, 

So  you  for  kindred  and  for  home. 


ELEANORE. 


T  ~\  TE  act  as  though  our  hearts  were  dumb 

We  only  talk  from  mind  to  mind  ; 
We  keep  our  kindred  hearts  confined, 
But  still  our  souls  together  come. 


Our  smiles  have  lost  their  tender  light ; 

Our  looks  are  distant  when  we  meet ; 

I  wonder  not  that  in  the  street, 
Love  only  ventures  forth  at  night. 


It  hides  for  lack  of  being  bold, 

Lest  worldly  fashion  scoff  and  scout ; 
The  world  turns  love  and  friendship  out, 

Yet  sells  herself  for  love  of  gold. 

55 


56  ELEAKORE. 

Why,  when  our  hearts  are  all  aglow, 
Let  man  oppose  the  Powers  above  ; 
God  made  them  warm  with  living  love ; 

Man  heaps  above  them  ice  and  snow. 


By  every  sunbeam  from  above, 
By  sin  unpunished  or  forgiven, 
By  all  the  unmeasured  gifts  of  Heaven, 

We  feel  and  know  that  God  is  love. 


Its  incense  breathes  through  flower  and  sod ; 
The  birds  that  make  heaven's  blue  bell  ring, 
When  most  they  love  most  sweetly  sing, 

And  prove  their  kinship  unto  God. 


Then,  while  love  spans  the  Universe, 

And  runs  through  all  that  God  has  given, 
Why  do  we  turn  our  backs  on  heaven, 

And  shrink,  as  if  it  were  a  curse  ? 


ELEANORS. 

Why  does  it  tinge  our  cheeks  with  shame, 
Make  eyelids  droop  and  peace  take  wing, 
When  its  the  only  heavenly  thing 

That  passed  the  angel's  sword  of  flame  ? 


I  know  full  oft  thy  heart  is  sore, 
And  sighs  for  something  to  caress  ; 
Yet,  dares  not  show  its  deep  distress  ; — 

Why  art  thou  weeping,  Eleanore  ? 


Ah,  yes ;  we  are  not  understood  ; 

The  world's  a  slave  to  power  and  pelf; 

She  only  seeks  to  find  herself, 
And  never  sees  a  trace  of  good. 


She  brands  each  kiss,  each  fond  embrace, 
With  the  dark  signature  of  Sin, 
Sets  Guilt  where  pure  thoughts  enter  in, 

And  Vice's  mask  on  Virtue's  face. 


58  ELEANORE. 

She  spurns  the  gold  and  hoards  the  dross, 
And  all  that's  pure  and  fair  doth  shun ; 
She  spurned  the  love  of  God's  own  Son, 

And  hung  him  bleeding  on  a  cross. 


Why  listen,  then,  to  what  she  saith  ? 

While  pure  love  calls  with  yearning  tone, 
And  Memory  pleads  how  we  have  known 

There's  heaven  this  side  the  gates  of  Death. 


I  feel  the  pulses  of  the  Past, 
The  thrilling  of  thy  finger-tips  ; 
Our  souls  are  creeping  through  our  lips 

Our  eyes  have  found  a  tongue  at  last ; — 


A  tongue  that  knows  no  worldly  art, 
A  speech  that's  sweet  beyond  compare 
No  language  can  be  half  so  fair 

As  whispers  of  a  loving  heart. 


ELEANORS.  ^ 


The  evenings  now  are  clear  and  calm  ; 

The  earth  is  bound  with  silver  bars ; 

The  sky  is  full  of  floating  stars ; 
The  breeze  is  happy  with  a  psalm. 


It  tells  me  of  the  old,  dead  year, 

When  lingering  by  thee  long  and  late, 
I  wandered  half  way  to  the  gate, 

Then  hastened  back  again,  to  hear 


My  name  by  thy  dear  lips  caressed ; 
To  hold  thy  trembling  hand  once  more 
To  say,  "  Good  bye,  dear  Eleanore," 

And — let  thy  memory  tell  the  rest ! 


I  left  thee  with  a  tender  plight, 

And  thy  young  cheek  all  wet  and  warm  ; 

And  gazing  on  me  till  my  form 
Was  lost  amid  the  shades  of  night. 


6o  ELEANORE. 

O  blest  remembrance !  that  still  keeps 
Each  word  and  look  of  soft  control— 
The  thrilling  touch  of  soul  on  soul, 

And  mimic  dreams  when  Memory  sleeps  ! 


O  special  charge  of  Heaven,  to  me 
Thou  art  the  queen  of  womankind ! 
The  world  may  claim  my  voice  and  mind, 

But  all  my  heart  belongs  to  thee. 


Through  thee  it  knows  our  birth  divine, 
And  thus  the  Eden  story  proves  ; — 
The  immortal  life  that  throbs  and  moves 

Through  all  thy  being  into  mine  ; — 


With  sense  of  loss,  and  sense  of  gain  ;— 
The  Godlike  restlessness  of  rest ; — 
A  little  heaven  within  the  breast ; 

Yet,  all  the  discipline  of  pain. 


E  LEAN  ORE.  6 1 

My  heart  with  deep  desire  is  warm, 

And  broods  o'er  buried  thoughts  and  things  ; 
O,  if  a  wish  could  borrow  wings, 

Or  memory  only  had  a  form ! 


My  heart  the  home  of  bliss  once  more 
Would  be  with  thee,  my  spirit-bride ; 
O  break  the  chilling  chains  of  pride, 

And  come  and  bless  me,  Eleanore. 


O  come,  as  in  the  days  of  yore, 

And  leave  the  world  for  love  of  me  ; 
There  is  so  much  of  heaven  in  thee, 

Earth  would  be  Eden,  Eleanore. 


NIGHT'S  SILENCES. 

"T^AY  hath  her  sounds,  but  night  her  silences, 

Sleep  from  the  grave  and  Rest  from  Heaven  come  ; 
Earth  holds  her  breath  and  every  voice  is  dumb ; 
The  tired  wind's  asleep  ;  Speech  forgets  her  words ; 
Silent  as  printed  notes  are  notes  of  birds ; 
In  all  the  earth  a  single  cricket's  sound 
Makes  voice  more  dumb  and  silence  more  profound ; 
While  countless  stars  with  noiseless  step  march  through 
The  dome  of  heaven,  in  reverent  review  ; 
No  wonder  earth  is  awed,  and  through  the  blue 
The  awful  silence  creeps,  as  line  on  line 
Of  suns  and  planets  wheel  and  march  and  shine 
Around  the  throne  of  Majesty  divine. 


62 


THE  SUSQUEHANNA. 


river  that  passes 
Through  grainfield  and  grasses, 
By  corn  still  a-growing,  by  meadows  at  rest  ; 
All  the  daisies  and  clover  _ 
All  the  trees  that  hang  over, 
Fall  in  love  with  their  images  down  in  thy  breast. 


There,  transfigured  they  stand, 

Leaning  out  from  the  land 

Over  fleets  of  white  clouds  sailing  after  the  sun  ; 

Looking  straight  into  heaven, 

From  morning  till  even, 
And  the  stars  that  shine  double  when  daylight  is  done. 

63 


64  THE  SUSQUEHANNA. 

Since  the  country  was  young — 
Since  the  morning  stars  sung 

The  praises  of  God  o'er  the  cradle  of  Time, 
Thou  hast  flowed  from  his  hand, 
Through  the  beautiful  land, 

Never  stopping  to  rest  in  thy  journey  sublime. 


All  flashing  and  flowing! 

All  gleaming  and  glowing ! 
Making  music  for  mill-wheels  that  waltz  by  thy  side ; 

All  the  flowers  on  thy  brink 

That  have  come  down  to  drink, 
Have  pitched  their  white  tents  by  thy  musical  tide. 


O  far-flashing  river ! 

Thou  art  hallowed  forever, 
As  the  path  where  the  angel  of  Beauty  hath  trod  ; 

And  it  seemeth  to  me, 

As  I  gaze  upon  thee, 
Thou  hast  caught  the  grand  gleam  of  the  glory  of  God. 


THE  SUSQUEHANNA.  65 

Now  the  sorrowful  moon 

Drops  a  silver  pontoon, 
All  festooned  with  rainbows  to  11  oat  on  thy  breast ; 

And  our  hearts  wander  o'er 

To  the  opposite  shore — 
To  the  hill  where  our  loved  ones  are  gathered  to  rest. 


All  the  raindrops  that  lie 

In  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
Hear  the  psalm  of  the  saints  that  have  gone  on  before 

And  they  sing  it  in  rills, 

Down  the  highlands  and  hills, 
Till  it  breaks  into  ripples  at  last  on  thy  shore. 


O  mount-guarded  river! 

Sail  seaward  forever ! 
Singing  anthems  to  Earth  as  the  ages  go  by ; 

Over  willow  and  sod — 

O'er  the  mountains  of  God, 
Let  thy  music  float  back  to  its  home  in  the  sky. 


66  THE  SUSQUEHANNA. 

Over  rock,  over  rift, 

As  we  silently  drift 
Down  the  river  of  Time  to  the  river  of  Rest, 

May  the  stars  be  as  true, 

And  the  heavens  as  blue, 
As  those  fast  asleep  in  thy  beautiful  breast. 


ULYSSES  S.   GRANT. 

T7ROIM  the  sea-girt  East  to  the  prairied  West, 

The  Nation  is  calling  the  lessening  roll 
Of  heroes  it  honors  and  loves  the  best; 

And  it  breathless  waits  for  the  answering  soul 
Of  a  noble  son,  whose  life  reads  more 

Like  a  fabulous  story  of  deeds  sublime,    . 
Who  shouldered  the  stars  as  Atlas  bore 

The  ponderous  earth  in  the  olden  time ; 
Who  rode  unsinged  through  the  furnace  heat, 

Where  the  leaden  hail  and  the  hurricane 
Mowed  down  and  windrowed  men  like  grain  ; 
And  the  terrible  flail  of  the  battle  beat, 
And  reddened  the  soil,  and  crushed  the  wheat, 
And  shattered  the  trees,  and  shook  the  field, 
While  Death  stood  close  as  the  hero's  shield 
And  took  his  orders,  and  grandly  won 

67 


68  ULYSSES  S.  GRANT. 

A  way  through  fire  and  blood  and  groan, 
For  the  Freedom  that  followed  each  thundering  gun, 
And  the  noblest  Peace  that  the  world  has  known. 


We  listen  and  wait ;  but  there's  no  reply ; — 

It  cannot  be  that  our  hero's  dead  ? 
Yet,  we  remember  how  all  the  sky, 

From  sea  to  sea,  with  black  was  spread 
But  yesterday — with  only  the  stars 

Of  a  rescued  Union  shining  through. 
Why  drooped  the  flag  with  its  shining  bars, 
With  a  band  of  black  round  the  peaceful  stars 

He  had  saved  and  kept  in  their  field  of  blue  ? 
Why,  from  the  Nation's  eyes  and  lips, 
Fell  tears  and  sighs  in  that  black  eclipse  ? 
Why  did  the  drums  beat  sad  and  slow, 
And  the  sorrowing  bugles  wail  as  though 
They  should  never  again  on  earth  be  blown  ? 
Had  the  soul  of  our  grandest  hero  flown  ? 
Or  did  Heaven  draw  near  to  the  sunny  crown 
Of  mount  McGregor,  and  set  thereon 
The  ladder  that  rose  from  the  pillow  of  stone  ? 


ULYSSES  S.   GRANT.  69 

And  did  the  boys  who  had  entered  the  grander 
Army  beyond  the  skies,  come  down 

And  rescue  from  Death  their  old  Commander  ? 


God  pity  us  all!  it  must  be  so, 

That  the  strongest  tie  of  earth  is  riven ! 
And  it's  easier  now  for  us  to  go, 

Since  he  whose  noble  life  has  given 
New  love  and  fame  to  a  soldier's  name, 
Now  joins  the  boys  who  loved  him  here, 
Under  Michael's  shield  and  Azrael's  spear. 


Heroes  of  Heaven  !  make  a  place  for  him, 
Where  his  earthly  fame  will  not  grow  dim, 
In  the  blazing  light  of  the  Seraphim : — 
That  all  the  angelic  hosts  may  know 
How  grand  a  human  soul  can  grow, 
Since  Christ  hath  died  for  its  sin  and  woe  ; 
For,  in  all  the  years  that  the  glorious  sun 

Has  looked  on  man,  since  the  world  began, 
He  never  has  seen  a  worthier  one, 


yo  ULYSSES  S.  GRANT. 

Nor  a  grander  record  of  duty  done, 

Nor  a  nobler  victor  of  battles  won  ; 

For  his  heart  was  as  firm  as  a  granite  stone, 

Yet,  soft  as  the  moss  that  grows  thereon, 

And  as  free  from  the  stain  of  a  selfish  gain 
As  a  lily's  petals  that  grow  apart, 
Untouched,  unsoiled  by  its  golden  heart. 


Ho  !  Orderly,  from  the  heavenly  ranks ! 
Make  a  way  for  him  through  the  flashing  flanks, 
To  where  his  country's  Father  and  Lincoln  stand, 
Mid  the  martyred  saints  of  their  native  land 
And  the  guards  of  Freedom,  at  God's  right  hand  ! 
Stand  back,  brave  souls  under  Leonidas, 
That  went  up  to  God  from  the  Grecian  pass ! 
And  you,  pure  knights  in  your  shining  mail, 
That  went  out  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
Or  to  rescue  the  land  where  Christ  had  been, 
From  the  hated  heel  of  the  Saracen  ! 
Stand  back,  bold  Swiss  of  the  mountaineers, 
Who  Freedom  led  through  the  Austrian  spears  ! 
Grand  Sergeant,  that  saw  the  dear  flag  fall, 


ULYSSES  S.   GRANT,  71 

And  set  it  again  over  Moultrie's  wall ! 
Stand  back,  ye  heroes  that  held  the  fort 
For  a  starry  name  and  a  grand  report ! 
Stand  back,  white  knights  of  Arthur's  court! 
For  here  is  a  hero  brave  and  true, 
A  patriot  pure,  and  a  soldier  who 
Was  as  grand  in  war  as  the  best  of  you ; 
And  as  grand  in  peace  as  the  world  has  seen  ; 
Yet,  with  soul  as  white  as  the  noblest  knight 
That  wept  for  the  honor  of  Arthur's  queen. 
Go  on,  grand  Saint,  to  your  rightful  place ! 
Lift  your  steadfast  eyes  to  the  Father's  face ; 
For  that  is  the  promise  Christ  has  given 
To  the  pure  in  heart  as  they  enter  Heaven. 


OF  BESSIE. 


ling'ring  birds  that  still  rejoice, 
And  sing  of  Edens  whence  ye  came ! 
Ye  would  not  sing  a  note  for  shame, 
If  ye  had  heard  my  Bessie's  voice. 


Ye  stainless  clouds  whose  purple  grace, 
The  sunset  heightens  with  its  flush ! 
I  wonder  not  that  ye  should  blush 

Since  ye  have  seen  my  Bessie's  face. 


Ye  stars  that  tremble  in  the  skies, 

Half  peering  through  the  lids  of  Night! 
I  know  by  your  bedazzled  sight 

That  ye  have  looked  in  Bessie's  eyes. 

72 


OF  BESSIE. 

Ah,  modest  Moon  that  sails  the  blue ! 
No  wonder  that  your  face  grows  pale 
And  hides  behind  its  snowy  vail, 

When  Bessie  turns  her  face  on  you. 


And  all  ye  skies  that  o'er  me  roll! 
Ye  could  not  show  so  pure  a  dome, 
If,  in  its  frequent  journeys  home, 

Ye  had  not  felt  my  Bessie's  soul. 


A  BREATH. 

MYSTERY  of  mysteries,  deeper  than  Death, 

The  marvelous  life  of  a  single  breath  ! 
It  cometh  unseen,  unfelt,  unheard, 
As  the  silent  sense  of  a  printed  word. 
And  as  naught  in  the  light  of  a  day  most  fair 
Tells  which  is  sunshine  or  which  is  air, 
So  the  mighty  soul  lies  hid  in  a  breath, 
As  the  invisible  presence  and  shape  of  Death. 
But,  you  let  it  fall  on  a  frozen  pane, 

And  the  miracle-makers  at  once  appear ; — 
Fair  castles  rise  with  their  silver  vanes, 
The  ferny  growths  of  a  tropic  plain, 
Bushes  that  bend  with  a  fairy  grace, 
And  delicate  bridges  spanning  space 

With  the  utmost  skill  of  the  engineer, 

74 


A  BREATH. 

And  beyond,  the  flowers  and  palms  upon 
The  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon. 
O  mysteryof  mysteries,  deeper  than  Death, 
In  the  magic  power  of  a  single  breath ! 


OUR  DEAD. 


T  T  NDER  a  mantle  of  stainless  snow — 

The  New  Year's  gift  of  a  pitying  sl<y— 
Where  the  sorrowing  winds  walk  to  and  fro, 
And  the  trembling  trees  are  bowed  with  woe, 
The  loved  and  lost  of  our  households  lie. 

Night  sets  a  watch  o'er  their  peaceful  rest, 

And  around  their  graves  the  still  stars  go ; 
And  the  white  stones  stand  in  their  snowy  vest, 
Like  angels  in  robes  of  ascension  dressed, 
Awaiting  the  sleepers  that  lie  below. 

We  never  knew  till  the  Angel  made 

A  grave  in  our  hearts,  and  planted  above, 
The  flowers  of  memory  that  cannot  fade, 
How  the  weight  of  sorrow  upon  them  laid, 
Will  press  out  the  perfume  of  faith  and  love. 

76 


OUR  DEAD. 

We  never  thought  till  they  were  dead, 

That  they  were  guides  whom  the  good  Lord  gave, 
To  teach  us  the  way  to  the  heaven  overhead — 
That  the  only  path  to  Paradise  led 

Through  the  narrow  door  of  the  lowly  grave. 

O  beauteous  earth  ! — mysterious  grave  ! 

How  grand  the  dwellers  that  slumber  there  ! 
The  world  about  us  hath  true  and  brave, 
But  the  world  beneath,  in  earth  and  wave, 

Is  peopled  with  heroes  everywhere. 

The  saints  and  sages  of  every  clime, 

The  noblest  men  the  world  hath  known, 
The  mighty  masters  of  lute  and  rhyme, 
There,  freed  from  sin  and  sense  and  time, 
Have  into  the  grandest  stature  grown. 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Burns, 

Still  sings  ;  it  cannot  help  but  sing  ; 
The  soul  of  Wesley  ever  yearns 
For  fallen  men,  while  Darwin  turns 

And  reads  the  riddle  of  unseen  things. 


77 


7g  OUR  DEAD, 

Their  voices  reach  no  earthly  ear  ; 

Their  thoughts  and  dreams  we  cannot  know  ; 
But  if  Heaven  is  in  and  around  us  here, 
Will  they  not  choose  to  linger  near 

The  hearts  they  loved  that  love  them  so  ? 

And  why  should  they  shrink  from  the  moist,  warm  earth  r 

There  all  the  germs  of  our  being  lie  ; 
There  every  form  of  life  had  birth  ; 
There  every  treasure  of  worldly  worth 

Is  closely  hidden  from  human  eye. 

And  yet  to  them  is  made  clear  and  plain 

The  hiding  place  of  the  rarest  gem, 
The  alchemy  of  the  sun  and  rain, 
The  course  of  each  electric  vein— 

The  underground  telegraph  used  by  them. 

They  hear  the  music  of  trickling  streams 
That  through  the  valleys  beneath  us  run  ; 

And  from  the  walls  where  sapphire  gleams 

Light  up  the  rugged  chasms  and  seams, 
They  see  far  off  the  central  sun. 


OUR  DEAD.  79 

They  feel  the  warmth  of  Earth's  magnet-heart ; 

They  know  the  mysteries  of  the  Pole, — 
The  fragrant  miracles  that  upward  start 
Through  shrub  and  flower — the  wondrous  art 

Of  touching' with  color  a  perfect  whole. 

And  now,  when  the  earth  seems  cold  and  drear. 

Those  cities  of  the  blissful  dead 
.  Are  making  the  robes  of  the  glad  New  Year  ; 
The  Resurrection  will  soon  be  here, 
With  all  the  beauty  around  it  spread. 

The  flowers  will  spring  from  the  sheltering  mold, 

And  meekly  bow  to  the  passers  by, — 
With  a  smile  from  the  lips  that  are  still  and  cold, 
While  a  faint,  sweet  perfume  they  unfold, 

From  the  fragrant  souls  that  will  not  die. 

Through  all  the  Summer,  the  grass  will  weave 

A  fibrous  curtain  above  their  rooms ; 
The  sentinel  trees  that  groan  and  grieve — 
In  the  cloudless  day,  in  the  moonlight  eve, 

With  shadowy  hands  will  count  their  tombs. 


go  OUR   DEAD. 

And  buds  will  blossom  and  birds  will  sing  ; 

Life,  fresh  from  the  grave,  will  be  everywhere ; 
And  the  bird  of  Hope,  that  beauteous  thing, 
Will  gather  again  her  bruised  wing, 

And  fly  to  heaven  on  the  breath  of  prayer. 


HEAVEN. 

T  T  EAVEN  is  so  far  that  Thought's  strong  pinions 

Falter  and  faint  in  their  wearisome  quest. 
Beyond  the  Universe'  grand  dominions, 

From  the  endless  East  to  the  endless  West ; 
From  the  infinite  depths  to  the  heavens  above, 

Through  the  sparkling  space  where  the  planets  run, 
And  nothing  can  follow  but  light  and  love, 

To  the  last  dim  ray  of  the  farthest  sun — 
The  utmost  point  of  a  limitless  line — 
Its  joys  immortal  and  glories  shine. 

Yet,  Heaven  is  so  near  that  sometimes  the  whole 

Of  it  enters  and  blesses  a  single  soul. 


81 


A  WINTER  PICTURE. 

"\  ~\  7HEN  flowers  are  safe  in  their  winter  resting, 
(For  nothing  dies  in  this  favored  clime), 

And  birds  are  warm  in  their  winter  nesting, 
The  New  Year  cometh  with  cheer  and  chime, 
With  the  fairest  pledges  of  Hope  and  Time. 

His  is  the  music  of  silver  bells, 

His  is  the  bloom  of  the  immortelles ; 

The  leaves  of  laurel  he  doth  combine 

With  sprays  of  holly  and  sprigs  of  pine, 
Cedar  and  mistletoe,  spruce  and  heather, 
Cypress  and  myrtle  and  moss  together, — 
All  the  immortals  of  wintry  weather, 

Into  his  wreath  he  doth  entwine. 

For  the  musical  murmur  of  wood  and  stream, 
The  robin's  song  and  the  roses  wasted, 

82 


A    WINTER  PICTURE. 

He  giveth  the  music  of  dance  and  dream, 
And  the  fairest  fruit  that  is  yet  untasted  ; 

For  the  summer  glories,  faded  and  faint, 

The  brightest  pictures  Hope  can  paint. 
And  what  can  equal  her  necromancy, — 

Her  magical  castles  gilt  and  lighted? 
The  rarest  fabrics  of  fact  and  fancy ; 

(For  nothing  she  moulds  is  marred  or  slighted) 
The  folded  bud 
Is  perfect  and  good, 

The  opening  blossom  alone  is  blighted. 


There  is  no  green  on  the  oaks  and  beeches, 

(That  is  the  color  that  fades  and  dies). 
But  there's  fadeless  green  through  the  woodland  reaches, 

And  the  tenderest  blue  above  them  lies — 

The  favorite  color  of  wintry  skies. 
And  out  of  the  woods  all  the  earth  is  light, 

From  wrecked  and  snowy  clouds  run  through 
While  our  guiding  stars  were  hid  last  night, — 

But  what  is  more  fair  than  a  heaven  of  blue  ! 
And  what  is  more  rare  than  a  world  of  white  ! 


84  A    WINTER  PICTURE. 

How  level  it  lies  down  the  young  Year's  track, 

Hiding  every  hint  of  death  and  trial ; — 
The  furrows  of  time  and  the  tempest's  wrack. 
No  shadow  of  night  has  crossed  the  dial — 
(The  lengthening  shadow  that  slanteth  back, 
And  never,  thank  God,  falls  toward  to-morrow). 
No  murmer  of  pain  nor  sob  of  sorrow 
Mars  the  music  of  voice  or  viol. 
Nothing  that  sigheth, 
Nothing  that  dieth, 

Attends  the  Year  in  his  march  supernal. 
It  surely  seems  as  if  God  had  moulded 

The  earth  and  the  heavens  over  again, 
That  the  millennial  bud  has  at  last  unfolded, 
And  death  and  sin  and  the  past  are  hurried 
Into  the  grave  of  time,  and  buried ; 
And  nothing  is  saved  for  the  life  eternal, 
But  the  single  year  of  all  years  when 
The  dear  Christ  died  for  the  sins  of  men. 


BROOK  AND  BREEZE. 


1  ~\  7HILE  I  rove  through  glen  and  grove 

And  dotted  fields  ot  daisies, 
All  the  heaven  is  full  of  love, 

Earth  is  full  of  praises. 
Here,  a  stream  with  human  sound, 

And  the  cool  breeze,  passes, 
With  the  incense  she  has  found 

In  the  trees  and  grasses. 


Stay !  glad  prattler,  till  you've  told 
All  your  sweet,  cool  places, 

How  you  learned  to  sing,  and  fold 
Heaven  in  your  embraces. 

Stay  !  O  balmy  breath  of  air, 
Fresh  from  fields  of  Aiden, 

85 


86  BROOK  AND  BREEZE. 

Tell  me  how  you've  kissed  the  fair 
Cheeks  of  many  a  maiden  ? 


But  the  brook  no  respite  took, 

And  went  onward,  roaming 
Where  the  mill  was  standing  still, 

Waiting  for  its  coming  ; — 
Where  the  loitering  river  waits 

For  its  swifter  flowing, — 
Where  the  big  clouds  take  their  freight, 

Then  sail  heavenward,  sowing 
Mist  and  rain  o'er  all  the  plain, 

To  keep  the  grasses  growing. 

And  the  breeze  went  on,  with  sweet 

Breath  each  brow  caressing  ; 
Then,  up  to  blow  the  cloudy  fleet 

O'er  fields  that  need  its  blessing. 
Glad  I  am  they  came  this  way  ; 

For,  oft,  when  memory  moves  me, 
I  hear  some  notes  the  brook  doth  play, 
And  a  perfume  get,  like  mignonette, 

Or  the  breath  of  the  girl  that  loves  me. 


AT  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


A  CROSS  the  river's  rippling  sheen 

They  went,  with  sorrowing  tread, 
Through  meadows  that  put  up  their  green 

To  rival  the  blue  o'erhead, 
Out  where  the  untrodden  streets  proclaimed 
The  hamlet  of  the  dead. 


Through  cloudy  vales  of  blue  and  gold 
The  sun  went  wandering  down ; 

Each  spire,  and  dome,  and  mountain  bold, 
Put  on  its  crimson  crown ; 

And  a  hundred  suns  were  all  a-glow, 
In  the  windows  of  the  town. 

87 


A  T  MOTHER'S  GRA  VE. 

A  little  stream  slipped  through  the  grass, 
With  sad  and  murmuring  sound ; 

On  every  side,  grief's  highest  tide 
Had  left  full  many  a  mound, — 

As  if  His,  "  Peace  be  still ! "  had  fixed 
These  waves  upon  the  ground. 


And  ever,  where  the  streamlet  went 
Broad  elms  and  maples  grew, 

Whose  heavy  shadows  o'er  it  bent, 
Hid  sun  and  star  and  blue ; 

The  heaven  it  saw  from  yonder  field 
Was  all  the  heaven  it  knew. 


But,  flowers  sent  up  the  faint,  sweet  breath 

Of  her  whose  breath  was  still, 
And  birds  right  in  the  face  of  Death 

Sang  out  their  sweetest  trill ; — 
How  could  they  know,  that  had  not  sinned, 

That  Death  had  power  to  kill! 


A  T  MOTHER'S  GRA  VE. 

Save  these,  no  earthly  sound  was  heard, 

No  living  thing  was  there  ; 
Yet,  something  like  the  awful  word 

Of  God,  was  in  the  air ; 
Which,  striking  dumb  all  worldly  thought, 

Unloosed  the  lips  of  prayer. 


Was  it  th'  assembled  souls  of  those 
Long  gone,  the  pure,  the  just  ? 

Or  the  all-yearning  heart  that  goes 
To  them,  with  love  and  trust, 

And  beats  its  life  out,  day  and  night, 
Above  their  hallowed  dust? 


Or  was  it  Christ's  sweet  soul  divine  ? 

That  comforts  those  who  mourn  ; 
And  only  pours  its  oil  and  wine 

On  bruised  hearts  and  torn  ; 
That  lingers  most  where  purest  love 

And  holiest  grief  are  borne. 


90  AT  MOTHER'S  GRA  VE. 

They  could  not  tell ;  they  only  knew 
That  Peace  so  filled  the  air, 

It  left  no  room  o'er  sod  or  tomb, 
For  earthly  thought  or  care, 

As  if  the  souls  of  all  the  saints 
Still  held  communion  there. 


And  straightway,  all  their  grief  and  pride, 

That  darkness  and  unrest, 
When  a  new  sense  starts  in  lovers'  hearts, 

No  more  their  souls  oppressed ; 
For  Love  had  rolled  away  the  stone, 

And  let  in  an  angel  guest. 


Then  Memory  ceased  to  paint  and  con 

Her  storied  pictures  o'er, 
And  sweet  Hope  paused,  and  gazed  upon 

Her  future  joy  no  more ; — 
The  present  brightness  dazzled  all 

Behind  them  and  before. 


A  T  MO  THEF  S  GRA  VE.  9  r 

And,  kneeling  there,  beside  the  dust 

Of  one  whose  life  was  given 
To  making  this  sad  world  forget 

Its  early  loss  of  Heaven, 
Love  found  and  let  them  through  the  gate 

Whence  primal  sin  was  driven. 


No  wonder  that  the  happy  whole 
Of  heaven  was  in  her  eyes  ; 

For,  years  before,  her  mother's  soul 
Strayed  back  to  Paradise ; 

And  she  was  then  the  cherished  child 
Of  a  saint  beyond  the  skies. 


And  she  had  longed  for  motherland, 

Until  the  angels  came, 
And  led  her  up  the  sloping  sky, 

Through  all  its  flakes  of  flame  ; 
And  she  had  walked  the  golden  streets, 

And  knew  them  all  by  name. 


9 1  AT  MOTHER'S  GRA  VE. 

Dear  One,  since  that  all-hallowed  eve, 
Full  many  a  year  has  flown ; 

And  many  a  fond  heart  comes  to  grieve 
'Round  new-made  mound  and  stone  ; 

And  two,  where  Death  has  writ  his  name 
'Neath  those  we  loved,  thereon. 


From  your  dear  eyes  full  many  tears 

Have  faded  half  the  blue  ; 
And  in  your  golden  hair  the  years 

Have  twined  some  silver  through ; 
But  your  sweet  soul  still  keeps  the  youth 

Of  the  Heaven  it  journeys  to. 


And  even  Death  has  reconciled, 

By  adding  holier  ties  ; 
For  then,  you  only  were  the  child 

Of  a  saint  in  Paradise  ; 
But  now,  you  are  the  mother  of 

Two  angels  in  the  skies. 


A  T  MOTHER'S  GRA  VE 

God  help  us  to  be  tender  of 
Your  every  thought  and  care  ; 

Lest  you  be  tempted  by  the  love 
Of  the  dear  ones  over  there. 

To  take  your  sunshine  from  our  home. 
And  make  their  Home  more  fair. 


93 


THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 

T  N  the  battle-cloud's  eclipse, 

And  a  shower  of  shot  and  shell, 
With  his  soul  upon  his  lips, 

Benny  fell ; 

And  they  laid  him  stiff  and  cold, 
In  the  grave  ;  yet,  why  repine  ? 
When  he  reached  the  gates  of  gold, 
If  he  had  the  countersign, 
All  is  well. 


Hallowed  is  the  path  he  trod, 

And  the  little  nameless  knoll ; 
Earth  has  claimed  his  form,  but  God 
Claimed  his  soul ; 

94 


THE  DRUMMER  BOY.  ~~ 

Heaven's  reveille,  at  dawn, 

Reached  it  through  the  battle's  din ; 

When  the  last  Relief  came  on, 

He  was  mustered  out, — mustered  in 
Was  his  soul. 


Pilgrim  clouds  in  mourning  deep, 

As  they  journey  through  the  skies, 
Pause  upon  their  way,  to  weep 

Where  he  lies ; 

But  the  sun  when  they  are  gone, 
Glorifies  the  tears  they  shed  ; 
And  o'er  him,  from  dark  to  dawn, 
Stars  and  blue  he  loved  are  spread, 
In  the  skies. 


AFTER  SUNSET. 


~\  1  TE  do  not  mourn  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

Because  we  see  in  the  waning  light, 
A  promise  writ  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  he  will  come  back  at  the  end  of  night. 
But  what  if  some  world  of  beauty  and  bliss 

Should  lure  him  away  ere  the  morrow's  dawn  ? 
Oh,  the  death  and  woe  that  would  come  to  this— 

Thus  I  think  when  my  Love  is  gone. 

But,  she  will  not  stay ;  she  is  truer  far 

Than  the  Sun  with  all  of  his  million  years  ;    • 

Her  native  home  is  the  fairest  star 

That  lights  our  planet  among  the  spheres. 

But,  her  love  for  me  is  so  fond  and  true, 
That  her  saintly  soul  is  no  longer  drawn 

Back  to  her  home  in  the  misty  blue- 
Thus  I  think  when  my  Love  is  gone. 


SOWING  FOR  OTHERS  TO  REAP. 


T7ROM  the-dawning  of  day  till  night, 

In  the  grainfield  over  the  way, 
The  son  of  the  soil  for  daily  hire, 

Is  toiling  his  life  away. 
Working,  with  want  and  pain, 

Ploughing  the  furrows  so  deep, 
Sowing  the  golden  grain, — 

Sowing  for  others  to  reap. 

Yet,  as  he  struggles  and  strives, 

Weary,  and  sad,  and  sore, 
A  holy  thought  comes  over  his  soul, 

As  never  it  came  before  ; 
How  the  Son  of  high  Heaven  once  trod 

Paths  that  were  stony  and  steep, 
Sowing  the  blessings  of  God — 

Sowing,  that  others  might  reap. 

97 


HIS  EYES. 


"D  ENEATH  black  brows,  through  long,  dark  lashes, 

When  on  me  he  turns  his  eyes, 
The  tenderest  light  of  heaven  flashes. 

As  the  sun  from  darkened  skies, 
Drops  a  glorious  glance  on  some  hill  or  meadow, 
While  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  dim  with  shadow. 
And  I  feel  as  must  feel  the  ripe,  red  clover, 
Blushing  pink  to  her  roots,  as  the  sun  hangs  over, 
And  gives  to  her  only  the  smile  of  a  lover. 


THE  ARMY  REUNION. 


O  AY,  Sergeant,  have  you  called  the  roll? 

Have  all  our  comrades  answered,  "  Here  "? 
We  mi'st  not  miss  a  single  soul 

On  this  one  night  of  all  the  year. 
Call  in  the  ranks  of  valiant  men 

<0 

Who  taught  the  Gods  of  ancient  time, 
That  heroes  are  more  brave  than  then, 
And  this  is  valor's  chosen  clime. 


Let  the  bugle  call  ring  out  for  all 

That  bore  the  flag  or  wore  the  blue  ; 
That  scaled  the  bastion's  fiery  wall, 
That  fought  and  bled  where  Logan  led — 
Each  gallant  man  with  Sheridan, 

99 


!  Oo  THE  ARMY  RE  UNION. 

That  bravely  rode  in  Death's  review 
Where  swarms  of  stinging  bullets  flew, 
Where  horse  and  rider  plunged  and  fell, 
Midst  flash  of  gun  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  the  thunderous  tongue  of  the  battle  rung, 
And  the  sulphurous  cloud  of  the  battle  hung, 
With  not  one  sign  of  star  or  sky, 
Save  where  the  old  flag  waved  on  high 
Its  field  of  blue,  its  clustering  stars, 

Like  the  swarming  bees  in  the  Pleaides, 
And  spread  its  white  and  crimson  bars, 
A  type  of  heaven  and  morning  glow, 
Above  the  clouds  of  death  and  woe. 


Call  in  the  line  where  the  pickets  shine ! 

Call  up  the  ranks  where  the  martyrs  lie ! 
They  do  but  sleep  in  a  deathless  shrine — 
The  Nation's  hearts  that  warmly  throb 
As  the  guns  round  Grant  at  Orchard  Knob. 

Let  us  look  once  more  in  each  flashing  eye ! 
Let  us  clasp  each  patriot  hand  again  !— 

Ah,  there's  nothing  below  like  the  battle's  glow 
To  melt  together  the  hearts  of  men. 


THE  ARMY  RE* 

Hail,  "  boys,"  for  aye,  though  worn  and  gray ! 

Hail,  heroes  of  the  forward  line ! 
Who  wear  no  star  but  many  a  scar, 
Where  valor  set  her  mark  that  you 
May  pass  the  gates  of  glory  through, 

If  you  forget  the  countersign. 


Some  of  you  come  with  a  crutch  or  cane. 

With  the  leg  that  -wore  the  prisoner's  chain  : — 

Some  with  the  wooden  leg  that  shows 

The  life -long  debt  that  the  Nation  owes  : 

Some  wear  the  badge  of  an  empty  sleeve — 

The  chevron  honor  and  duty  weave, 

And  each  of  you  proves  by  h->;  answered  name, 

That  many  a  rifle  missed  its  aim. 

You  braved  the  withering  fire,  the  smoke. 

The  bayonet  thrust,  the  saber  stroke. 

The  crimson-crested  waves  that  broke 

On  the  front  rank,  on  either  flank. 
You  charged  where  only  glory  leads, 
And  stepping  on  grand  and  lofty  deeds, 

You  stole  a  march  up  the  glittering  arch, 
Disguised  in  blue,  and  plucked  and  set 


102  Tllk  AkMY  REUNION. 

The  stars  in  each  General's  epaulet ; 
And  you  in  the  battle's  light  that  glowed, 

With  the  point  of  a  bayonet,  wrote  his  name 
In  the  warm,  red  ink  that  ebbed  and  flowed, 

High  on  the  scroll  of  heroic  fame — 
High  on  the  heavenly  muster  rolls, — 
The  roster  of  immortal  souls. 


Yet,  not  all  the  blood  of  heroes  runs 

Beneath  a  private's  wounds  and  scars  ; 
For  here's  a  soldier  whose  rank  was  won 

On  fields  as  red  as  fiery  Mars, 
Till  the  stars  came  to  him,  one  by  one, 

Instead  of  his  dying  to  .reach  the  stars. 
And  here  is  one  of  our  own  brave  sons, 

Whose  fame  on  a  bloody  page  is  told 
By  a  leg  chipped  off  by  the  rebel  guns  ; — 

Ah,  Death  is  a  judge  of  the  finest  gold, 
And  clips  no  coins  but  the  purest  ones. 


It  is  getting  late  ;  but  we  patient  wait, 
For  some  of  the  guests  are  absent  yet. 


THE  ARMY  REUNION. 

Is  Kearney  still  at  Malvern  Hill  ? 

Is  Shaw  on  Wagner's  parapet? 
Does  Hooker  yet  o'er  Lookout's  height, 

Toward  Mission  Ridge  the  rebels  press  ? 
Does  Sedgwick  still  in  that  fearful  fight 

Lie  wounded  in  the  Wilderness  ? 


And  where  is  Thomas,  whose  proud  name 

In  a  Nation's  heart  is  shrined  and  blessed? 
Is  there  nothing  here  but  his  fadeless  fame 

To  quicken  the  pulses  in  every  breast  ? 
And  where  is  Custer,  to  whom  was  given 

A  soul  so  brave,  I  believe  that  Death 
Fled  from  him  and  let  him  ride  straight  to  heaven, 

Without  the  loss  of  a  single  breath. 


The  flags  are  here  whose  bright  stars  shone 
Through  the  battle's  cloud  with  a  light  divine, 

But  where  are  the  feet  that  bore  them  on, 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  enemy's  line? 

And  where  are  the  hands  that  beat  the  drum  ? 
And  where  the  lips  that  the  bugles  blew  ? 


104  THE  ARMY  REUNION. 

Ah,  we  call  the  roll,  but  they  do  not  come, 
For  bugle  and  drum  and  lips  are  dumb — 
The  cypress  waves  where  the  laurels  grew— 
But  Heaven's  new  Legion  is  dressed  in  blue. 

And  this  forever  is  God's  own  land ; 

For,  furrowed  and  harrowed  with  shot  and  shell, 
It  was  thickly  sown  with  the  noblest  band 

That  ever  for  liberty  fought  and  fell ; 
And  now,  upspringing  on  every  side, 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Freedom  rise, 
And  waft  their  fragrance  to  those  who  died — 

To  the  grand  Encampment  in  the  skies. 

Ah,  Bravest  and  Best !  Ah,  noblest  dead ! 

Who  fought  for  Union  and  died  to  win  it ; 
The. earth  is  hallowed  whereon  you  bled, 

And  Heaven  is  brighter  because  you're  in  it ! 
But  the  angel  of  Peace  now  comes  to  rest 
In  the  happy  land  you  saved  and  blessed ; 
And  the  skies  each  year  draw  near  and  near. 

There  are  new  stars  seen  on  the  heavenly  shore ; 
Are  they  camp-fires  bright,  or  the  beacon  lights 

Set  for  us  by  the  brothers  who've  gone  before  ? 


THE  ARMY  REUNION.  105 

Your  ranks  grow  fuller  while  ours  grow  less, 

And  every  day  our  brave  boys  wander, 
To  enlist  with  you,  o'er  the  stars  and  the  blue 

That  hallowed  the  flag  you  all  fought  under. 
When  our  camp-fires  are  low.  we  trust  v/e  shall  go 

To  hold  a  reunion  in  that  fair  region  ; — 
Oh,  comrades  in  Heaven,  keep  a  place  for  our  souls, 

On  the  muster-in-rolls  of  the  Heavenly  Legion! 


OF  PEARLS. 


~\  ~\  7"HEN  day  her  golden  gate  unbars, 
The  pearly  shells  of  ocean  rise, 
And  catch  the  tear-drops  of  the  stars, 

That  issue  from  their  closing  eyes  ; 
And  then,  so  runs  the  Latin  line, 

From  drops  of  dew  and  rays  of  sun, 
The  little  jewels  swell  and  shine, 

Till  all  their  mystic  growth  is  done. 

And  thus,  I  caught,  in  days  of  youth, 

Thy  truths  and  precepts,  which  sublime, 
Were  nourished  by  the  rays  of  Truth, 

And  moistened  by  the  dews  of  Time  ; 
And  now  when  years  with  onward  roll, 

Have  passed  me  in  life's  mazy  whirl, 
I  ope  the  casket  of  my  soul, 

And  lo !  thy  precepts  are  a  pearl. 

106 


THE  CHURCH  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

TN  the  midst  of  God's  Acre,  just  back  from  the  street, 
Stands  the  church  of  our  fathers — the  church  of  our 

God; 
All  its  echoes  of  song  are  still  tender  and  sweet, 

When  we  think  of  the  lips  that  lie  under  the  sod, — 
Of  the  hearts  that  beat  time  to  the  old-fashioned  psalm, 
That  shall  nevermore  thrill  under  sermon  or  prayer  ; 
O  souls  that  have  entered  the  infinite  calm. 

Let  your  blessing  of  peace  now  descend  on  us  there ! 


Here  our  mothers  have  prayed :  here  our  sisters  were  wed  ; 

Here  our  voices  and  hearts  have  been  tuned  in  accord  ; 
Here  saints  have  communed  with  the  saints  overhead ; 
Here  the  sermon  was  r;aid  o'er  the  dust  of  our  dead, 

And  our  children  baptized  in  the  name  of  the  Lord ; 

107 


io8      THE  CHURCH  OF  OUR  FA  THERS. 

Here  our  lips  have  been  pressed  to  the  'cup  that  He 

blessed — 

The  sacred  bread  broken — the  solemn  words  spoken, 
In  remembrance  and  name  of  the  Saviour  of  men. 
When  our  souls  soar  away  to  the  unending  Day, 
May  they  know  the  sweet  peace  that  encompassed  them 
then ! 


Then,  by  all  the  sweet  thought  that  the  sabbaths  have 
brought — 

By  the  truth  that's  been  taught — by -the  blessings  we 

know ; — 
By  the  Christians  we  love,  that  are  waiting  above — 

By  the  Christians  below,  that  are  waiting  to  go ; — 
Let  the  spirit  of  strife,  all  our  envy  and  pride, 
Be  at  once  crucified  on  the  Cross  by  His  side, 
While  we  go  on  together  through  sunshine  and  cloud, 

Hand  in  hand,  to  the  church  of  our  Father  above ; 
O,  how  can  our  spirits  be  selfish  and  proud! 

When  the  Master  himself  was  all  meekness  and  love  ? 


DIPPED  IN  SUNSET. 

(L.   L.   D.   C.) 

IV  /T  Y  old-time  Friend,  cut  in  the  dewy  wood. 

Through  whose  leaf-heav'n  the  sunbeams  come 

to  drink, 

I've  lain  me  down  to  see  if  here  I  could 
Find  aught  to  dream  or  think. 


Here  pools  that  bathe  the  foot  of  many  a  tree, 
Are  making  pictures  set  in  frames  of  sod, 

And  little  spots  of  sky  look  down  on  me, 
Calm  as  the  gaze  of  God. 

His  cloudy  navies  creep  along  the  shore, 

With  sails  half-whitened  by  the  rain  and  sun, 

And  o'er  yon  hill  a  sailing  seventy-four 
Fires  off  her  thunder-gun. 

109 


no  DIPPED  IN  SUNSET. 

Here  I  first  saw  the  grassy  fields  grow  brown ; 

And  lo,  one  morning,  on  some  gracious  breeze, 
A  dozen  truant  rainbows,  floating  down, 

Fell  tangled  in  the  trees. 

And  I  first  saw  these  fiery  forests  fling 

Their  gorgeous  banners  to  the  breezes'  fold, 

And,  y ester-sunset,  saw  them  crown  a  king 
In  robes  of  red  and  gold. 

With  cruel  spear  the  sumacs  drew  the  blood 
Of  our  dear  Summer,  to  adorn  their  leaves  ; 

And  envious  maples  stole  the  sunset's  flood, 
To  match  the  autumn  eves. 

But  now  they  blush  and  tremble  at  the  theft, 
And  leaves  let  fall  with  dewy  tears  impearled, 

As  if  they'd  still  some  sense  of  honor  left, 
To  shame  this  wicked  world. 

How  straightway,  as  I  think,  come  back  to  me, 
The  summer  days  of  glory  without  glare, 

The  all-embracing  heavens,  the  sunset  sea, 
With  warm  isles  floating  there ! 


DIPPED  IN  SUNSET.  ITI 

'     And  sweet  as  changes  of  the  church's  chimes, 

I  hear  the  river  rippling  out  its  lays, 
Through  all  that  blessedest  of  summer-times, — 
Those  goldenest  of  days. 

But  frost  and  winds  have  wasted  all  the  flowers, 

And  other  rainbows  gather  in  my  eyes, 
I  cannot  leave  those  all  too  happy  hours, — 

That  piece  of  Paradise ; 

And  I  am  praying  that  some  blessed  day, 

When  winds  are  warmer  and  the  skies  more  bland, 

This  lovely  year  will  lose  her  path,  and  stray 
Back  to  her  native  land. 


LOVE  AND  LAW. 

T  T  EAVEN  brings  love,  and  sin  brings  law  ; 

Where  Christ  doth  dwell,  there  love  must  be 
And  if  thou  lovest,  happiness 

Will  fold  her  wings  and  abide  with  thee. 


Love  takes  her  own  sweet,  happy  way ; 

She  is  most  pure,  and  has  no  thought 
For  anything  less  pure  than  she  : 

She  walks  with  Law,  but  knows  it  not. 


No  bond  as  light  as  a  spider's  thread 
Binds  her,  or  turns  to  left  or  right ; 

She  follows  the  lead  of  her  own  sweet  will, 
And  walks  by  love  and  not  by  sight. 

112 


LOl'E  AXD    LA  1C.  1 

She  knows  no  higher  power  or  law. — 
The  one  thing  here  of  immortal  birth  : — 

Ah.  earth  is  too  heavy  to  rise  to  Heaven. 

But  Heaven  hath  winiis  and  can  come  to  earth  ! 


But.  when  pure  Love  is  touched  by  sin. 

She  quicklv  shows  her  deep  distress. 
And  straightway.  looks  with  blushing  shame. 

For  leaves  to  hide  her  nakedness. 


The  hand  of  Law  is  on  her  laid  : 
The  world  no  more  is  pure  and  fair 

She  see-  the  trail  of  the  serpent.  Sin. 
And  his  death-aneel.  everywhere. 


O  blessed  blindness !  happy  sense 
Of  him  whose  weakness,  failure,  los: 

Can  only  walk  wi-.h  Providence  : — 
Who  cannot  stand  unless  the  Cross 


114  LOVE  AND  LA  W. 

Be  near  to  lean  upon ;  on  him 
Love  doth  bestow  diviner  things  ; 

He  sees,  where  other  eyes  are  dim  ; 
Where  others  walk,  he  useth  wings. 


THE  PINES. 


'T^HE  scowling,  piney  wood  uprears 

Against  the  storm,  its  thousand  spears 
And  though  it  bends  beneath  the  shock, 
It  stands  as  firmly  as  the  rock 
Beneath  its  feet ;  the  angry  gale 
Flies  on  it,  clad  in  frozen  mail, 
And  beats  it  with  an  icy  flail. 
The  dark  wood  writhes  and  moans  in  pain, 
Retreats,  and  then  springs  back  again, 
And  bending  thus,  its  willowy  form 
Wears  out,  at  last,  the  vengeful  storm. 

And  so,  when  skies  are  overcast, 
And  storms  beat  on  us  fierce  and  fast, 

We  may  by  bending,  while  contending, 
Weary  and  wear  them  out,  at  last. 

"5 


THE  GRAINFIELD. 

T^ROM  dewy  morn  till  set  of  sun, 

The  farmer  reaps  his  fruitful  lands ; 
And  wheat  and  tares  together  fall 

Beneath  the  strength  of  hardened  hands  ; 
God  grant  that  when  the  harvest's  done, 
The  horn  of  plenty'll  overrun. 


The  songs  of  scythes  and  merry  men, 
The  laughing  jest  and  echoing  shout, 

Beguile  the  weary  hours,  and  then, 
The  farmer's  children  have  come  out 

To  romp  upon  the  ripened  grain, 

Or  ride  upon  the  groaning  wain. 

116 


THE   GRAINFIELD.  117 

When  twilight  creeps  along  the  plain, 
The  farmer  homeward  hauls  his  store  ; 

His  children  ride  upon  the  grain, 
His  wife  is  waiting  at  the  door ; 

Methinks  no  happier  home  is  found 

Than  his,  in  all  the  country  round. 


NIGHT  AT  SANTA  FE. 

T    IFTED  far  up  above  the  level  sea, 

Seven  thousand  feet  into  the  heavenly  blue, 

I  look  off  on  the  happy  scenes  I  knew, 
The  mountain  home  where  all  my  treasures  be, — 
Whose  angel-dreams  at  least  must  pass  by  me, — 

The  narrow  vale,  the  river  winding  through ; 

The  sleeping  city ;  down  each  avenue, 
White  as  the  robe  of  fair  Penelope, 

The  moon  unrolls  her  mantle ;  on  its  hem, 
Shadows  in  silver  frames  and  lights  are  set, 

Like  dew-drops  with  the  moon's  own  light  in  them 
And  all  the  rest  in  silent  silhouette — 

Save  where  the  river  shining  like  a  gem, 
Copies  and  keeps  the  heaven  it  fell  from,  yet. 


118 


THE  BLUEBIRDS. 

T^\  EAR  minstrels  of  the  early  Spring  ! 

If  you  would  nearer  come, 
And  see  the  welcome  in  my  heart, 

You  there  would  build  your  home. 
Already  you  have  won  the  wings 

That  are  but  promised  me  ; 
And  all  the  soul  within  you  sings, 

While  mine  still  mute  must  be. 

Oh,  for  the  power  to  lay  aside 

This  dull  and  stupid  sense ! 
To  see  as  birds  and  insects  do, 

The  ways  of  Providence  ; — 
To  feel  far  off  the  coming  Spring, — 

To  soar  o'er  mountain  height, 
And  keep  on  light,  unconscious  wing, 

Both  earth  and  heaven  in  sight. 

119 


DEATH  AND  DARKNESS. 


'T>HROUGH  death  and  darkness  Nature  sends 

Her  gifts  to  those  unmindful  of  her  ; 
The  empty  bough  breaks  not  nor  bends ; 

The  falling  leaves  the  fruit  uncover ; 
The  sweetest  woman,  wife  or  friend, 
Is  only  a  woman  till  death  impend, 

And  makes  her  an  angel  to  those  who  love  her. 


In  senseless  clay  and  darkest  night, 
The  seeds  their  little  lives  surrender  ; 

No  tears  of  sorrow  dim  our  sight, 

Save  when  the  heart  is  warm  and  tender, — 

Mere  worthless  tears,  but  seen  aright, 

Through  larger  lens,  in  Heaven's  light, 
They  yet  may  shine  with  rarest  splendor. 

120 


DEATH  AND  DARKNESS.  I2t 

The  sky's  baptismal  dew  descends, 

Alone  when  evening  shadows  hover ; 
Only  in  storm  the  rainbow  bends 

From  earth  to  heaven,  the  mountains  over. 
The  rose  with  rare  remembrance  blends 
In  her  dark  root,  when  winter  ends — 

Without  one  ray  let  in  above  her— 
The  sunlight's  brightest  hues,  and  sends 

Them  up  to  gladden  those  who  love  her. 


Then,  welcome  night,  the  darkened  skies, 

Through  which  the  trooping  stars  are  driven  ; 
The  fading  leaf  or  flower  that  dies 
That  brighter  leaf  or  flower  may  rise  ; 

The  sunset  clouds,  the  shades  of  even, 
The  little  glimpse  of  Paradise 

We  catch  when  life  through  death  is  given  ; 
The  shadow  of  the  Cross  that  lies 
Along  our  path,  and  shields  our  eyes 

From  all  the  dazzling  light  of  Heaven. 


IN  JUNE. 

'HP IS  the  marriage-month  of  the  Earth  and  Sun- 
Through  the  restless  sea, — 
Through  shrub  and  tree, 
The  earth's  heart  goes  with  a  quicker  beat ; 
The  air  is  throbbing  with  life  and  heat ; 
The  West  is  golden,  the  East  is  red, 
And  all  the  meadows  between  are  spread 
With  star-eyed  daisies  and  garlands  gay, 
To  deck  the  earth  on  her  wedding-day. 

A  thousand  times  has  she  been  won 
By  kisses  of  the  amorous  sun  ; 

And  always  in  delicious  June  ; 
And  now,  as  if  her  heart  were  stirred 
For  the  first  time,  by  some  sweet  word 

122 


IN  JUNE. 

Of  youthful  love,  she  doth  arise 

With  her  brides-maid,  the  modest  moon, 
And  hastens  forth  in  wondrous  guise 
To  meet  her  lover  in  the  skies. 


The  clouds  roll  out  of  the  azure  spaces, 
The  stars  go  into  their  hiding-places, 
And  only  shed  their  trembling  light 
About  her  feet  all  shod  with  Night. 
Far  off  some  envious  stars  look  on 
With  a  blue  veil  over  their  faces  drawn, 
But  none  of  the  bright  orbs  dare  to  run 
Near  the  bridal-path  of  the  earth  and  sun. 

Down  many  a  cloudy  lane  she  goes, 

Waltzing,  waltzing,  on  her  way. 
Upon  her  breast  the  rarest  rose, 
And  every  fragrant  flower  that  blows — 

As  she  goes  waltzing  on  her  way. 
The  sweetest  perfume  fills  the  air 
From  orange-blossoms  in  her  hair  ; 
The  richest  frankincense  and  myrrh 
On  fleets  of  wind  are  borne  with  her ; 


124  IN  JUNE. 

And  down  the  fragrant,  rosy  miles, 

O'er  towering  tree  and  mountain  peak, 
She  sees  her  lover's  morning  smiles 

That  mantle  all  her  rounded  cheek  ; 
In  many  a  lake  and  stream  at  rest 
She  folds  his  image  to  her  breast, 
While  many  a  wood  and  meadow  ring 
With  wedding-notes  of  birds  that  sing- 
Too  deep  for  our  interpreting  ; 
And  o'er  her,  all  her  journey  through, 
There  gently  floats  and  swings  the  true, 
Dear  marriage-bell  of  heavenly  blue. 
Oh,  the  songs  that  the  streamlets  play ! 
Oh,  the  love  that  the  songsters  say ! 
Oh,  the  sweets  in  the  earth's  bouquet, 
When  she  goes  forth  on  her  wedding-day ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  YEAR. 

TN  the  dead  hush  of  night  when  the  world  was  all  still, 
And  the  clouds  lay  in  ambush  o'er  mountain  and  hill: 
When  the  sword  of  Orion  was  pointing  the  way 
The  pure  spirit  takes  to  the  mansions  of  day, 
Lo !  out  of  the  East,  like  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
Marching  west  with  the  stars,  came  a  great  company, 
Over  mountain  and  plain,  in  a  journey  sublime, 
Keeping  step  to  the  beat  of  the  seconds  of  Time. 


As  they  came  down  the  valley  and  slowly  swept  past, 
They  bore  the  Old  Year  just  breathing  his  last ; 

And  a  thousand  fair  forms  that  had  faded  and  died, 
The  father,  the  mother,  the  husband,  the  bride, 

I25 


126  THE  BURIAL  OF  THE   YEAR. 

The  wreckage  of  hopes  where  the  tempest  had  passed, 
The  joy  of  a  moment,  the  spirit  of  pride. 


The  ruler  was  there,  but  his  sceptre  and  throne 

Were  left  in  a  country  no  longer  his  own ; 

The  hero  was  there,  but  no  Juggernaut  car, 

Or  the  pageant  and  pomp  of  victorious  war, — 

The  statesman,  but  mute  was  his  eloquent  tongue, — 

The  singer,  but  hushed  was  the  song  that  he  sung. 

And  here  was  a  father,  bearing  solemn  and  slow 

The  pride  of  his  life  and  the  weight  of  his  woe  ; 

And  a  mother  was  there  with  the  babe  that  she  bore, 

Still  keeping  the  smile  that  its  innocence  wore — 

But  it  never  will  nestle  or  cry  any  more. 

And  here  was  the  Spring,  all  reft  of  her  bloom, 

The  sad,  silent  Summer,  no  song  or  perfume, 

The  soft,  tender  light  that  lay  deep  in  the  blue 

Eyes  of  the  girl  that  was  dreaming  of  you 

A  dream  of  sweet  life  that  shall  never  come  true. 

For,  no  smile  on  her  face,  no  pulse  in  her  breast, 

No  rose  in  the  cheek  that  her  passion  confessed, 

And  the  hand  that  you  clasped,  and  the  brow  you  caressed, 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE    YEAR.  I27 

The  lips  that  you  kissed,  and  the  heart  that  you  blessed, 
Were  withered  and  cold,  and  forever  at  rest. 


But  in  the  dead  march  there  were  anthem  and  hymn 
That  swelled  from  the  vale  to  its  mountainous  rim ; 
And  some  were  so  sweet  that  I  think  a  few  bars 
Must  have  gone  up  to  God  in  the  steps  of  the  stars ; 
And  I  caught  a  few  words  of  a  comtorting  lay 
Of  a  dear  little  maid  that  one  desolate  day, 

Wandered  out  of  her  home  to  the  brink  of  life's  even, 

And  found  her  own  way 

To  the  unending  Day, 

And  she  never  has  had  to  be  christened  in  Heaven, 
For  the  angels  still  call  her:  "Our  dear  little  May." 

Storm  may  wreck  and  death  may  sever, 
Sin  may  blight,  but  buds  that  never 
Ope  the  sweet  hearts  in  their  bosoms, 
Till  ifs  time  for  heavenly  blossoms, 
They  are  safe  and  fair  forever. 


So,  the  mighty  procession  moved  on  to  the  West, 
From  the  valley  of  Life  to  the  valley  of  Rest ; 


I28  THE  BURIAL  OF  THE   YEAR. 

And  as  it  drew  near  to  the  grave  of  the  Years, 
While  the  skies  were  in  mourning  and  clouds  were  in  tears, 
And  the  breezes  of  midnight  moaned  low  in  the  gloom, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  Lazarus  heard  from  the  tomb, — 
Lo !  the  marvelous  clock  in  the  belfry  of  Time 
Commenced  striking  the  years,  with  a  clangor  and  chime 
That  made  the  earth  tremble,  and  echoed  afar, 
From  heaven  to  heaven,  from  planet  to  star ; 

And  I  counted  and  heard  till  it  struck  eighty-nine. 
Then  back  from  the  West,  like  the  flight  of  a  bird, 
In  a  tone  sad  and  solemn  as  ear  ever  heard, 
The  wind  brought  a  hymn  without  dropping  a  word : 


Old  Year!  Rest!  thy  work  is  done. 

Thou  shalt  see  Earttis  sin  and  sorrow 
Nevermore,  beneath  the  sun  ; 

Ere  the  dawning  of  the  morrow, 
Other  hands  shall  ring  the  chime 
Of  the  morning  march  of  Time. 

Old  Year!  Rest!  thy  work  is  done. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THR    YEAR.  129 

II. 

Angel  spirits  !     Hasten  home  ! 

All  thy  sins  have  been  forgiven  ; 
Snow-flakes  falling  from  the  dome. 

Are  a  pure,  white  sign  from  Heaven, 
That  the  gates  have  opened  there, 
To  the  touch  of  Faith  and  Prayer. 

Angel  spirits !     Hasten  home! 


HI. 

Stricken  Mourners  !      Wherefore  weep  ? 

Love  is  kin  to  Love  supernal  ; 
Death  is  but  a  little  sleep, 

Between  two  days,  and  one^s  eternal. 
Earth  shall  bloom  again,  in  token, 
That  no  bud  is  lost  or  broken  ; 
Life  and  hope  shall  take  new  wing, 
With  returning  birds,  in  Spring. 

Stricken  Mourners!      Wherefore  weep? 


DOES  SHE  LOVE  ME? 


T^OES  she  love  me?     That  is  Greek, 

Far  too  deep  for  me  to  know. 
Do  the  sweet  lips  always  speak 

From  the  heart's  deep  overflow  ? 
Can  I  tell  each  gentle  sigh 

Is  the  breath  of  answering  love  ? 
Are  the  glances  of  her  eye 

Forged  by  Cupid  or  by  Jove  ? — 
Only  this  to  me  is  known, 
That  I  love  her,  her  alone  ; 
Only  this  I  clearly  see, 
She  is  more  than  earth  can  be, 
And  full  half  of  heaven  to  me. 

130 


DOES  SHE  LOVE  ME? 

Does  she  love  me  ?     Do  I  know 

Christ  has  risen  from  the  tomb  ? 
Or  where  roses  when  they  blow, 

Get  their  color  and  perfume  ? 
Faith  would  have  no  mission  here, 

Hope  would  still  in  heaven  be, 
If  I  did  not  trust  the  dear 

Pledges  of  her  love  for  me. 
Though  I  cannot  prove  it  mine 
By  an  algebraic  sign, 
Yet,  as  love  divinely  grows, 
It  believes  and  feels  and  knows. 
Thus,  through  soul  and  every  sense, 
Her  true  love  gives  evidence  ; 
And  I  clear  and  clearer  see 
She  is  more  than  earth  can  be, 
And  full  half  of  heaven  to  me. 


MY   BURDENS. 


n^HE  burdens  laid  on  me  are  light 

As  the  breath  of  a  child  in  a  quiet  night; 
Or  I  have  grown  so  strong  to  bear, 
They  seem  mere  shadows  of  toil  and  care, 
As  the  heavy  clouds  o'er  the  meadows  tread, 
Without  bending  even  a  daisy-head. 


By  night,  across  my  slumbers  sweep 
Such  dreams  as  only  come  and  keep 
A  watch  on  earth,  when  sin  doth  sleep  ; 
By  day,  the  glorious  light  is  such 
I  wonder  Heaven  can  spare  so  much, — 
The  very  clouds  are  lined  with  light, 
Upon  the  heaven-side  pure  and  white, 
But  blue  and  gold  and  red  I  see 

132 


MY  BURDENS.  133 

Upon  the  earth-side  nearest  me, 
And  new-created  earth  and  skies 
Dawn  daily  on  my  wondering  eyes. 


If  days  grow  dark,  if  care  and  pain 
Press  close  and  sharp  on  heart  and  brain, 
These  lovely  pictures  still  shall  bloom 
Upon  the  walls  of  Memory's  room  ; 
I  still  shall  keep,  I  trust,  the  love 
Of  one  below  and  One  above  ; 
I  still  shall  keep  a  memory  bright 
Of  these  dear  days — of  how  the  light 
On  Horeb's  hill  once  seemed  to  shine 
Upon  this  peaceful  hearth  of  mine, 
And  all  was  sweet,  and  fair,  and  good, 
As  if  this  mountain  home  had  stood 
On  mount  of  the  Beatitude  ; 
And,  thus  remembering,  thankful  be 
That  God  has  been  so  good  to  me. 


YOUR  BIRTHNIGHT. 


T  T  AIL,  wonderful  Night !  the  shadows  are  furled 

Out  of  the  heavens  and  around  the  world, 
And  into  your  sight,  undazzled  by  light, 
All  the  orbs  of  the  Universe  now  are  whirled. 
Out  of  the  skies  all  the  clouds  are  driven, 
The  Earth  alone  is  to  darkness  given ; 
Christ  has  been  sent  to  the  stars  of  even, 
And  every  one  has  been  forgiven, 
And  is  blossoming  out  through  all  the  heaven. 

In  one  short  hour — O  wondrous  view  ! — 
A  glittering  splendor  fills  the  blue, 
And  skies  are  all  created  new. 
You  turn  your  wondering  eyes  above, 
And  straightway  see  the  meaning  of 

134 


YOUR  BIRTHNIGHT.  135 

That  God  is  Light  as  well  as  Love ; 

You  know  why  wings  to  light  are  given, 

Like  angels  to  go  out  of  heaven, 

To  bless  and  brighten,  and  lift  the  curse 

Of  darkness  and  death  from  the  Universe, — 

Why  every  rainbow  tint  that  falls 

From  the  golden  streets  and  the  jasper  walls, 

Is  woven  into  each  glorious  ray, — 

Why  God,  in  every  flower  and  tree, 
And  every  seed  in  the  lifeless  clay, 
Struggles  and  climbs  to  the  light  of  day,— 
Why  even  the  moth  in  the  flame  will  fly, 

And  perish  to  set  its  spirit  free, 
Rather  than  be  a  worm  and  die, 
And  gain  its  wings  in  the  butterfly. 

As  planet  to  sun  is  drawn,  and  draws 
The  star  in  turn,  through  God's  own  laws, 
So  the  soul  is  drawn  to  its  primal  Cause. 
And  as  even  the  smallest  spark  will  fly 
And  spend  its  little  life,  to  try 
To  reach  the  sparkling  stars  on  high, 
So  every  spark  of  the  flame  divine 
Flies  up  to  God  in  the  orbs  that  shine. 


1 3  6  YOUR    BIR  THNlGH  T. 

As  into  your  eyes  falls  the  vestal  light, 
Your  brooding  soul  starts  up  and  flies 
Across  the  evening's  shadowy  bars, 
Beyond  the  blue,  beyond  the  night, 

Through  the  white  atmosphere  of  stars,- 
Out  in  the  path  of  suns  that  rise 
On  other  worlds  and  other  skies, — 
Looking  and  longing  to  find  and  rest 
On  the  natal  star  where  it  once  was  blessed. 


Oh,  if  it  only  could  remember 

The  way  it  came  that  calm  November 

Night  in  the  shadowy  long  ago  ! 
Oh,  if  it  only  had  left  a  sign 

On  some  fixed  star,  that  it  might  know 
Its  glad  way  back  to  the  world  divine  ! 


It  cannot  tell  the  course  it  came  ; 
Its  eyes  are  blinded  by  the  blaze 
Of  suns  that  crowd  the  heavenly  ways  ; 
Its  path  is  lost  amid  the  maze 

Of  the  Milky  Way,  whose  myriad  stars 


YOUR  BIRTHN1GHT.  137 

Flow  on  and  on  like  a  flood  of  flame, 

Into  the  everlasting  seas  ; 

But  For  the  clustering  Pleiades, 

And  the  steady  signal-light  of  Mars, 
It  could  not  tell  where  in  the  skies 
The  weary  world  in  darkness  lies, 

It  could  not  know  a  way  to  go ; 
For,  being  still  of  sin  unshriven, 
No  instinct  leads  it  on  to  Heaven ; 
And  yet  the  dreams  of  Heaven  that  keep 
It  longing  and  restless  in  its  sleep. 
The  homesick  sense  of  heavenly  birth, — 
All  draw  it  away  from  the  sinful  earth. 


Like  a  bird  set  free  in  alien  skies, 
In  widening  circles,  it  flies  and  flies, 
Hoping  to  hear  some  guiding  tone, 
To  feel  some  breeze  out  of  Heaven  blown, 
To  find  some  sign  of  its  native  zone, 
But  heareth  and  feeleth  and  findeth  none. 
Weary  and  lone  it  wanders  back, 
Adown  a  star's  illumined  track, 
(To  the  only  home  that  is  now  its  own); 


138  YOUR  BIRTHNIGHT. 

For,  wherever  the  wing  of  a  deathless  soul 

Or  light  can  go,  or  a  planet  roll, 

There  is  each  star's  faint  aureole  ; 

And  no  matter  how  faint,  no  matter  how  far, 

At  least  one  ray  of  every  star 

Falls  gladly  from  its  heavenly  height, 

Falls  bravely  through  the  sun's  fierce  light, 

Falls  trembling  through  the  gloomiest  night, 

Straight  to  the  earth  in  her  weary  flight ; 

Its  end  in  a  drop  of  dew  impearled, 

Like  a  life-line  cast  to  a  sinful  world. 


Dear  Christ  in  Heaven,  whose  favorite  star 
The  wise  men  led  to  thy  manger-bed ! 

Oh,  show  to  me  where  its  glories  are ! 
And  lift  the  glass  darkly,  that  I  may  see 

It  beckon  and  beam  in  the  eastern  skies, 

Like  a  lamp  in  the  windows  of  Paradise, 
To  lead  my  unsatisfied  soul  to  Thee. 


NOTE. 


NOTE. 

The  verses  entitled  "  The  Children,"  are  invariably  credited  to 
the  author  in  School-books  and  Collections  of  Verse,  but  as  they 
have  been  widely  copied  in  American  and  English  newspapers  over 
the  name  of  Charles  Dickens,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  print 
the  following  note  from  the  son  of  the  dead  Novelist : 

HOTEL,  BRUNSWICK,  NEW  YORK,  ( 
October  29th,  1887.  ( 

DEAR  SIR:  In  reply  to  the  letter  which  MB.  WILLIAM  HENRY 
SMITH  has  been  good  enough  to  forward  to  me,  I  willingly  testify  to 
the  fact  that  the  poem  "The  Children,1'  which  has  so  often  been 
erroneously  attributed  to  my  father,  was  not  written  by  him  ;  and 
that,  far  from  having  claimed  it  as  his,  I  have  written  during  the 
last  seventeen  years,  a  large  number  of  letters,  and  have  many  times 
inserted  in  my  magazine,  Household  Words,  answers  to  correspond 
ents,  stating  that  the  story  about  the  poem  having  been  found  in 
my  father's  desk  after  his  death  was  entirely  apocryphal,  and  that  I 
was  altogether  unaware  to  whom  the  credit  of  the  authorship  of  the 
verses  Avas  duo.  I  am,  dear  sir,  faithfully  yours, 

CHAISES  DICKENS. 

CHAS.  M.  DICKINSON,  ESQ., 

"Daily  Republican,"  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


26  1947 


REC'D 


EEC.  CIB.FEB    1  78 


JUN    6  '69  -3PM 


LD 


21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


Pir»lnrisonj 

C«¥ 

D551 

The   chile 

.ren 

NOV    2  6  194T 

xX 

M41955 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


